


What You'd Thought Lost Is There To Be Found

by DeliriumsDelight7



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anti-CS, F/M, I am shocked I tell you, I probably can't, Rating may go up depending on whether I can restrain myself from writing Rumbelle smut, SHOCKED that I could not resist writing smut, Well would you look at that, house swap, let's face it, the rating went up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 73,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27931981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7
Summary: Loosely based on the 2006 movie, The Holiday.  Emma Swan is currently heartbroken, lost, and trying to reconnect with the son she's alienated.  Belle French has become jaded after years of her boyfriend's repeated infidelities.  In an effort to find themselves, they agree to swap homes for the holiday season.  Emma will spend her Christmas in bustling New York City, while Belle settles herself in the sleepy town of Storybrooke.  Neither expects to find love during their unplanned holiday.Winner of the Best Movie AU and Best Background Swanfire in the 2021 TEAs
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy/Emma Swan, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Henry Mills & Emma Swan
Comments: 209
Kudos: 121





	1. I'll Be So Blue Just Thinking About You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea was blatantly stolen from ThatRavenclawBitch’s Tumblr, since she said she doesn't have the time to write it, and the plot won't leave my head. ThatRavenclawBitch was kind enough to say I could post, and consider it a prompt, so here we are.

_December 14th_

  
Slumped on her couch in an oversized sweater and her flannel pajama pants with the blue stars on them, Emma Swan sipped morosely at her lukewarm hot chocolate. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and the coffee-table was strewn with crumpled tissues. On the TV, a young Michael J. Fox was at the bottom of a dogpile on the basketball court. Next to her, her friend Ruby was curled up, similarly attired in a red hoodie and black sweats. An empty popcorn bowl lay between them.

This was Ruby’s prescribed fix for breakups: cheesy ‘80’s movies, booze, munchies, and company. A good friend could be there to deal with heartbreak in whatever way was needed. Sometimes it was a listening ear, or a righteously angry voice to say, “he never deserved you. Seriously, fuck that guy!” Sometimes a girl just needed a distraction, or someone to hold her hair out of the way while she puked her brains out after getting sloppy drunk.

Emma wasn’t sure what she needed. She wasn’t sure of anything at this point.

“Oh man, I love this part,” Ruby murmured as the actor burst from the pile of basketball players in slow motion, covered from head to toe in brown fur. 

“I’ll never get why you love this movie so much,” Mary Margaret said from where she perched on the overstuffed armchair, her legs curled under her. Her demure plaid pajamas were covered by the white fleece throw she had pulled up to her chin.

“ _Teen Wolf_ is an absolute classic,” Ruby insisted. “Michael J. Fox is such a cutie.”

“He’s covered in fur!”

“And he makes it look hot!”

“Whatever. I’m going to make more popcorn. Refills on the hot chocolate?” Mary Margaret stood up, collecting everyone’s mugs. “Let’s see. RumChata in mine, red wine in Ruby’s, and Fireball in Emma’s, right?”

While she busied herself in the kitchen, Emma stared blankly at the screen, where the basketball-playing wolfman spun the ball on his finger while the crowd looked on incredulously. “I don’t know how things got so bad,” she mumbled. Ruby kept her eyes on the movie screen, and Mary Margaret still bustled about heating milk for hot chocolate, but she knew she had their undivided attention. “I mean… at first it was just a few dates with the bad boy. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Now I might lose my job, and my kid hates me. How did that even happen?”

“Henry doesn’t hate you,” Mary Margaret argued, bringing in a freshly popped bowl of ranch-flavored popcorn and plunking it between the two on the sofa. “He’s a little upset, but he’ll come around.”

“Where is the shrimp, anyway?” Ruby asked.

“With the Tillmans,” Emma replied. “I didn’t want him seeing me like this. Michael offered to have him sleep over with Nick and Ava, and I couldn’t say no.”

As if on cue, Emma’s cell phone lit up with a call from the Tillman residence. “One sec. I’ve gotta take this,” she said. Accepting the call, she held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

 _“Hey Emma,”_ Michael said. _“Nick wanted to show Henry his new video game. I just wanted to run things by you first.”_

“Not the one with the hookers, right?”

_“No, no! You know I always check what they’re playing first. No, this one’s just running around shooting aliens. No nudity, no guts, green blood. You get the idea.”_

Her phone buzzed against her face. Pulling it away, she saw a text notification. From Killian. What did he want? Was he going to try to win her back? Should she answer it? She shook her head, forcing her focus back to the conversation. “Oh. Uh… yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. How’s he doing?”

_“Oh, he’s fine. You know how kids their age are. Stuff them full of pizza and plop a controller in their hands, and they’re zombies for the rest of the night. I’ll make sure they’re in bed in another couple of hours.”_

“Thanks, Michael. You’re the best.”

_“Any time.”_

The call went dead, and Emma stared blankly at the black screen of her phone. 

“Emma?” Mary Margaret called from where she was refilling the mugs. “Everything okay?” She handed Emma and Ruby their respective drinks before settling back down in the armchair.

“Yeah, Henry’s good. But… Killian texted.”

“Ohhhh no. No, no, no, we’re not doing this.” Before Emma could protest, Ruby had snatched the phone from her hands. She fiddled with it for a few minutes, then handed it back. “There. His number is blocked, and I changed his contact to ‘Asshole McDoucheFace.’ In case you get tempted to unblock him.”

“Ruby!” Emma checked. Sure enough, the contact had been changed, their entire text history deleted. “How did you even know my password?” she demanded.

She shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth, washing it down with a sip of hot chocolate. “Blegh. Ranch and chocolate. Weird flavor combo. Anyway, you set literally every code to Henry’s birthday. We love you, babe, but passwords aren’t your strong suit.”

Emma swallowed down her irritation at her friend. Ruby was just trying to help, and Emma knew that removing the temptation to call or text her new ex was for the best. “Well… thanks. I guess.” Her leg bounced restlessly on the couch. “You know what the worst thing is? Even after everything, I still just want to call him up and apologize.”

“For what?” Ruby asked. 

“God, I don’t even know! For dumping him? For not doing enough? For having a kid that I have to take care of?”

“Oh, Emma.” Mary Margaret’s expression was a gut-punch of pity and disappointment.

Emma’s fingers raked roughly through her hair. “I know. I know! It’s like… I don’t even recognize who I am anymore. And the second he flashes me that grin with those sad puppy eyes--”

“I don’t know _any_ puppy who wears that much eyeliner--”

“I’m gonna be eating right out of his hand again.” She flopped back against the couch cushion with a groan. “And there’s no avoiding him! How’re you supposed to avoid your ex in such a tiny town? He knows where I live, where I work… How am I supposed to get any space?”

“Take a vacation,” Ruby suggested. “Look, I know Graham suspended you, and that really sucks. But maybe this is a good thing! You can get out of town for a couple weeks, get your head on straight. Hell, bring the shrimp with you. I bet he’d love to have some one-on-one time with you.”

Emma snorted. “Yeah, me and what money? Between buying Henry’s Christmas gifts, bailing Killian out of jail, and the rent check,” she gestured toward the envelope resting on the mantelpiece, “I’ve got maybe a couple hundred bucks to my name. No way I can afford airfare for two and a hotel.”

“Mm! Mm!” Mary Margaret hastily swallowed her mouthful of popcorn. “I know--” Suddenly she cut off, coughing and sputtering. 

“Jesus, Mags, easy,” Ruby said. “Need a glass of water?”

Mary Margaret waved her off with one final cough. “No,” she croaked. “Just had a kernel go down the wrong pipe. I’m okay.” She cleared her throat one last time and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Anyway. I know what you can do! Last year, David and I put our house up on this home exchange website.”

Emma frowned. “Home exchange? What’s that?”

“It’s exactly what it sounds like. You list your house on the website. If somebody likes what they see, they’ll message you. You figure out a time that works for both of you, and swap houses. They stay here, and you stay at their place.”

“So… it’s like a two-way AirBnB?” 

Mary Margaret nodded. “Exactly! But it’s free, since your host will be staying here. It’s perfect. You get out of town for a couple weeks for cheap, and you and Henry can have some time alone to figure things out.”

“I bet Gold would have kittens if he found out I let some stranger stay here,” Emma snickered. Which, as far as she was concerned, was just an added bonus. “You know what? Screw it. I’m in. What do I need to do?”

“I can set up an account for you,” Mary Margaret offered. “Ruby, can you get some pics of the house? Interior and exterior. Nobody checks the listings that don’t have pictures.”

******

Belle French’s cell phone buzzed where it rested by her right hand on her desk, pulling her from her writing fugue. Or her “lack of writing” fugue, as the case may be. Huffing at the distraction, she glanced down at her phone screen. Greg was calling. Again. She’d been letting his calls go to voicemail for the better part of a week, and he still hadn’t taken the hint. Maybe she should just nip this in the bud. She accepted the call.

“What, Greg?” she snapped.

 _“C’mon, Belle, don’t be like this!”_ her ex boyfriend wheedled. She could perfectly picture his perfectly-rehearsed “apology face”: the slight pout in his lips, and the sad-yet-hopeful cast of his eyes as he begged for forgiveness. God, how many times had she fallen for it over the past four years? _“I swear it was just one time. Adrienne meant nothing to me.”_

She rolled her eyes, leaning back into the plush leather cushion of her computer chair. “I know, Greg.”

_“So you forgive me?”_

“I know she didn’t mean anything to you,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Just like Giselle meant nothing to you, and Anastasia before her, and Diana before _her._ Of course Adrienne didn’t mean anything. They never do.”

_“Aw, babe, don’t be like that.”_

“You say that a lot,” Belle remarked, curling a finger idly around one finger. “‘Don’t be like that.’ Don’t be like what, exactly? Self-respecting? Independent? Or just plain sick of your shit?”

_“Oh, come on, Jelly Belley…”_

“Oh, for the last time, I hate that name! It’s not funny, it’s not cute, and jiggling my stomach when you say it is _not_ endearing!” She continued before he could cut her off. “You know, Greg, it didn’t even bother me when I found out you were screwing your assistant this time.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, _“It… it didn’t?”_

She would have laughed at the hopeful note in his voice if she weren’t so annoyed. “Not at all. In fact, I’ve known for _months_ about your affair with Adrienne. So please don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me.” Planting her feet on the ground, she swiveled her chair slowly back and forth. “For months, you’ve been having ‘late night photo shoots’ and ‘going out for drinks with the guys,’ coming home smelling like her body spray. And you know what? _I didn’t care._ I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t angry. I didn’t miss you while you were gone. I was just relieved to have some peace and quiet.” She waited for him to say something, anything. He didn’t, so she pressed further. “Do you get it? I haven’t been in love with you for ages! We’re done. Finished. Over.”

Greg was quiet for a long time. She could nearly hear the wheels turning in his head. She wondered if his ears were smoking with the effort. _So… you’re not going to take me back?”_

“No.”

_“Fine. When can me and my friends come get my shit?”_

“Oh no,” she said, “I know what you and your friends do to ex girlfriends’ apartments, and I am _not_ footing the cleaning bill for that. I’ll have your things shipped to you.”

_“Wh - Belle, it’s a week before Christmas! I won’t get it ‘til after the holidays if you ship it!”_

With a roll of her eyes, Belle considered her options. She didn’t trust Greg in her apartment unattended, and she really had no desire to see his nauseatingly chiseled features again. If he sent his friends over, she had no doubt that they’d find some disgusting, immature way to exact their revenge on her for dumping Greg.

But she did have a friend who owed her a favor.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll pack up your things, and I’ll have Neal bring them over to you. Good enough?”

 _"Fine,”_ he grumbled. _“When can he do it?”_

“I have to talk to him. I’ll let you know. Don’t call me again; I won’t pick up.” And with that, she hung up.

Packing Greg’s things didn’t take long. Despite dating for four years, he really didn’t keep much here, and Belle had never responded to his not-so-subtle hints to let him move in. Even before the first time he’d cheated (that she knew of), she’d been reluctant to take such a big step with him. That probably should have been her first hint that things weren’t working between them, she realized. Oh well. Hindsight was 20/20. She carefully went through each room and packed up every last item that belonged to him. The framed headshots that cluttered her coffee table, the small collection of toiletries in the bathroom, the one set of sweats he’d left here after he’d gotten a cold and insisted that she nurse him back to health. That was it. The personal gymnasium in the third bedroom of the apartment had been furnished entirely on her dime. If he wanted to see so much as a single dumbbell, he could offer to reimburse her for the expense of converting the bedroom to a gym.

With that done, she made a quick call.

 _“Yo.”_ The voice on the other end of the line sounded distracted.

“Hey, Neal.”

_“Hey! If it isn’t my favorite consulting writer. What’s up?”_

“So… you remember when I gave you some pointers for Alastor’s motivation to betray the hero in _Dragon’s Eternal Ember_?”

_“How could I forget? Alastor’s a fan favorite. I’m pretty sure if we don’t work him into the sequel, the fans are gonna revolt!”_

Belle chewed on her bottom lip, pacing up and down her office. “Good, good. So you, uh, remember how you said you owed me a favor?”

_“Yeah…”_

“Well, I broke up with Greg, and I need someone to bring him his things. Think you could help me?”

 _“You finally dumped him?”_ Neal demanded. _“For real this time? It’s over? Finito? Kaputsky?”_

“That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but yeah. We’re done.”

 _“Ugh, finally! I’ve been telling you for years that he’s no good for you.”_ In Belle’s opinion, Neal had no right criticizing her taste in men, considering what his own girlfriend was like. But he hadn’t asked her opinion, and she’d keep her peace until he did. _“I’m free in a few days. I can drop by after work and drop his crap off. How much is there?”_

Belle eyed the box. “One medium-sized box. Mostly empty.”

_“Cool, cool. I’ll take care of it.” A beat of silence. Then, “So how’s the new book coming?”_

“Good,” Belle lied. “It’s… it’s really great.” She eyed the mostly empty Word document on her laptop.

_“That bad, huh? How much, or how little, did you get written today?”_

“I wrote three sentences, and I’m seriously considering deleting two of them,” Belle reluctantly admitted.

 _“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you need a vacation, Belle.”_ It was an old argument. Every time Neal’s company came out with a new release, he took a vacation somewhere exotic. Bora Bora, or Machu Picchu, or a Caribbean cruise when he was feeling lazy. Any time Belle submitted a new book for publication, she started outlining the next book. _“You’re gonna burn yourself out at this rate. If you haven’t already.”_

Belle snorted. “Oh, sure, I’m sure I’ll have a blast vacationing by myself. Can you see me going someplace tropical and asking for a kayak for one? No thanks.”

 _"You don’t have to go somewhere tropical,”_ he argued. _“Besides, with your complexion you’d manage to get a sunburn even if you never left your room once. But maybe think of going someplace cozy, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Upstate, maybe, or somewhere in New England?”_

Belle paused. That… actually sounded rather appealing. Despite his lack of possessions here, Greg had left a mark in this apartment just with his mere presence. Maybe getting away for a few weeks wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Someplace isolated, where she could focus on writing, without distractions. Ideally not a hotel; she didn’t want to be disturbed by room service, or subjected to the sounds of neighbors arguing or having sex. If she was going to do this, she’d want uninterrupted privacy.

“I’ll think about it,” she conceded, already plopping herself down into her computer chair and opening a browser window.

_“Cool. Well, let me know what you decide.”_

“I will.”

Thirty minutes of searching later, Belle was just about ready to consider it a lost cause. It was the holiday season, and most accommodations had been booked months in advance. She supposed she could hold off until next month, when everyone was home from their vacations. But she knew herself. If she gave herself time to think about things, she’d find a reason not to do it. Besides, wouldn’t it be fun to do something interesting for once? Shake things up a bit?

Finally, she landed on a website advertising home exchanges. She wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed, but she was sure she’d figure it out as she went. First things first: the website wanted a destination country. She clicked on the US flag. No sense leaving the country if she planned on holing herself up in a house instead of taking in the sights. Besides, she was fairly certain that her passport had expired last year.

The next page asked for a state. Her fingers flexed over her keyboard. “New England, huh?” she muttered. Maybe Neal had a good point. Someplace isolated would be nice. Maine should do the trick. It was the northernmost state in New England, probably more wilderness than anything. She clicked the link.

The pickings were… slim. There were only five listings total. She combed through them, before settling on one town in particular. Storybrooke, Maine. It certainly sounded like a haven for writers. The sort of place that promised tranquility, inspiration, and breathtaking views. A quiet little town free from expectations, free from stress, and free from Greg.

Yes. Perfect. She clicked the listing. An image of a small country cottage popped up on her screen, along with a short description. She read it aloud. “A fairytale cotage set on a tranquil lakeside. Snuggel up by an old stone fire place and enjoy a cup of cocao. An encanting oasis of tranquility in a quite hamlet in Main.” She rubbed her forehead. “Oh my god.”

She scrolled through the pictures. Typos notwithstanding, the listing seemed promising. The view, as she’d hoped, was lovely. It was far too cold to sit outdoors and enjoy the lake view, much less swim in its waters, but maybe she could set up her laptop in a window that overlooked it. The interior of the house looked cozy: small without seeming cramped, filled with small homey touches that made a quiet warmth bloom in Belle’s chest. Her own apartment had precious few personal touches, apart from the books that lined the shelves in every room. Apart from Greg, she never really had visitors. But this house looked welcoming and lived in.

Well, she wouldn’t judge the place based on the owner’s spelling skills. With a firm nod, she composed a message and hit Send.

******

Emma’s computer blooped.

“Wha?” With a yawn and another gulp of a drink that was more Fireball than hot chocolate at this point, she pulled up the chat window in her browser. “Holy crap,” she muttered. “We got a hit!”

Ruby and Mary Margaret crowded into her from either side. “Whassit say?” Ruby demanded.

“I’ll read it.” The words swirled a bit on the screen, but if she squinted, she could read it aloud. _“‘H’lo there. My name’s Belle, ‘n’ I was hopin’ to part… par-ti-ci-pate in the home exchange. ‘M I correct in assumin’ that you would stay at my home while I stay at yours?”_

“Real genius, this one,” Ruby snickered. 

Mary Margaret gave Ruby a shove over Emma’s shoulder. “Shh! Ruby, she’ll hear you!”

“Pffft. Let ‘er.”

Emma ignored the antics of her friends, focusing on typing a coherent reply despite the keyboard’s annoying tendency to move under her fingers. She read her reply as she typed it. “Hiiii Belle, I’m Emma. Yup, you got it. You crash here, I crash at yours. ‘M not lookin’ to go far. Somewhere I can drive. Where’re you at?”

A small ellipses symbol popped up, indicating that this Belle person was typing. Finally, after an eternity, a new message popped up. _“New York City. Does zat work for you?”_

“New York? Tha’s perfect!” Mary Margaret cried. “You ‘n’ Henry can bond in the big city. There’s all kinds of stuff a kid would wanna do.”

“Maybe,” Emma demured. That was assuming this Belle would be okay with having a kid in her home. She typed her next message. “I’ve got a kid. He’s ten. Real good kid. Does what he’s told, doesn’t make a mess. Izzat gonna be a problem?”

More typing. Then, _“Jus’ to clarify, yer takin’ him with you, right? I’m ‘fraid I’m not qu… qual… koalafied to be a full-time babysitter.”_

Ruby cackled at that. “She thinks you’re ditchin’ Henry on her!”

“Noooo, he’d be comin’ with me. To your place. If that’s okay,” she responded. 

_"Tha’s fine, as long as my apartment is clean when you leave and nothin’s broken.”_ Another ellipses symbol, and another message. _“One las’ question: ‘m looking for peace ‘n’ quiet. If I stay here, will there be any distractions?”_

“Not a one,” Emma promised, hitting Send. 

_“Perfect. How soon?”_ Emma started typing “tomorrow,” but Mary Margaret laid a hand on her arm.

“Whoa, hang on Emma,” she slurred. “You still gotta talk to Henry about this, and pack.”

“Truuuue.”

“An’ tomorrow’s rent day,” Ruby added. “You gotta get that check over to Gold or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Pffft,” Emma scoffed. “Like I’ll forget to give ‘im the rent. Day after tomorrow, then.” She typed out a message suggesting the date, and hit Send.

******

“‘Hw about the day affter tommorow? Im goig 2b hungover tomorow. Bad breakup.’ God, she can’t even misspell tomorrow consistently,” Belle muttered. “Well, at least that explains her spelling.” Still, she could sympathize. If she had any love left for Greg, she’d probably be in a similar boat. Out of sympathy, she tried to be kind in her reply. “I know the feeling. The day after tomorrow sounds perfect. I’ll make sure a key is kept for you at reception, and I’ll email you the rest of the details. I hope you have a good night.”

Once she and the mysterious Emma said their goodbyes, Belle switched back to her Word document. The steady blink of the cursor mocked her, tracking every second that the words just wouldn’t come. Why was this so hard, for god’s sake? She’d been making her living doing this for years. Even when she’d been heartbroken at Greg’s repeated infidelities, the words had never failed her before now. Something had changed, and she didn’t know what.

After another hour of staring at the measly three sentences on the screen, she made a decision. Three sentences, and she was unhappy with two of them. She deleted all three, and closed out of the document. She’d be getting nothing done tonight.

Instead, she reviewed the last email Neal had sent her, asking for help with his company’s next project. Neal was an incredible idea guy; all of his story ideas were original, refreshing, and fascinating to read. But he was utter crap with characters, something that Belle excelled at. Under normal circumstances, anyway. If she couldn’t get her own writing done, she could at least help Neal with his projects.

Maybe something would come to her later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this chapter practically wrote itself once I got rolling. I hope the rest is this easy, since I'm hoping to crank this out during the holiday season.
> 
> I am helpless at coming up with titles, so this fic's title was yoinked and shorted from "The Lost Christmas Eve" by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. The chapter's title was taken from "Blue Christmas" by Elvis Presley.


	2. This Was Some Meet-Cute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I quit angst and trauma stories. Writing Rumbellifications of chick flicks is easier. This practically writes itself.

_December 16th_

  
As Belle drove past the “Entering Storybrooke” sign on the heavily wooded road, she slowed down to take in the sights. For the past hour there had been nothing more interesting than snow-covered pine trees and the occasional gas station. She might not be here to take in the local color, but she could still enjoy the small town aesthetic. 

The town proper was more or less exactly what she’d been expecting: small, locally owned shops and business with rustic wooden veneers, and not a neon sign or chain franchise in sight. There was a small hotel attached to a diner that promised comforting, homestyle cooking. A bakery displayed golden loaves and iced confections in its window . There was a hardware store, a clothes shop, an animal shelter, and something nearly every small town seemed to boast: an antiques store. The large building with the clock tower at the center of town was apparently a library. Everywhere she looked, the town was strung up with pine garlands and lights that would probably look magical once they were lit after nightfall. She made a mental note of where the grocery and general stores were so she could stock up on food for the coming weeks.

According to her phone, Emma’s cottage was past the town proper, a few miles down the road. She pulled her blue coupe down the dirt road toward her destination, admiring the solitude provided by the snow-covered pines all around. Just as she hoped, this cabin was far enough from town to grant her the privacy she needed to write, but close enough that she could venture into town if she needed supplies, or a break. She pulled her car up to the cottage and parked. It looked exactly how it had in the picture. Her shoulders released some tension she hadn’t even realized was there. Part of her had been expecting to be catfished… or maybe housefished… with inaccurate or outdated photos. But the picture may as well have been taken yesterday.

Of course, this was just the exterior. For all she knew, the interior was riddled with problems. Visions danced in her head of black mold, clogged plumbing, faulty electricals, and more. With a deep breath, Belle climbed out of her car, taking a moment to adjust to navigating the uneven dirt driveway in four inch heels. If she’d been thinking, she might have worn her one pair of flats. She unloaded her rolling luggage from the backseat, dragging it behind her toward the front door. Apparently the walkway leading to the steps was icy, because the second her feet hit the stone they shot out from under her. She landed on her ass with a pained grunt. Muddy slush quickly soaked through the material of her skirt.

“That’s going to bruise,” she muttered. She attempted to stagger to her feet, only for her legs to slip again, forcing her jarringly to her knees. “Okay, then, looks like I’m crawling.” And that’s just what she did, shuffling on hands and knees while lugging her suitcases behind her. The key to the front door was hidden under the welcome mat, just as Emma promised in her email yesterday. She quickly let herself in, eager to get out of her cold, wet things. Only after the door was shut behind her did she dare clamber to her feet and look around.

Just like the outside, the interior was exactly as pictured. The walls were all done in wood panelling that gave the rooms a close, cozy feel. Unlike the wide open spaces of her apartment, the small confines of the living room were utterly dominated by the furniture: a squashy-looking sofa and armchair combo with outdated plaid covers, and a small entertainment center with a moderately-sized TV. The kitchen was miniscule, with what Belle deemed to be far too little counter space to cook anything more complicated than boxed macaroni and cheese without getting in your own way. All in all, it was sized just right for one person. She couldn’t imagine living here with another person without constantly tripping over each other. But for her purposes, it was perfect.

Taking her things upstairs and unpacking in Emma’s bedroom was quick work. From there, she gave the whole house a quick once-over to see what she’d need in town. Rock salt, for instance, for the frozen walkway. Once she wrote out a list, she changed into some more practical shoes and headed out for town.

******

“How much longer?”

Emma sighed, her hands gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter. She’d managed to roll Henry out of bed bright and early so they could pile themselves and two weeks worth of luggage into her yellow bug. They’d been in the car together for close to six hours, and apart from grumbling about being woken up early and telling her what he wanted from the drive-thru for lunch, those three words were the first he’d spoken to her all day. At least he was talking to her now.

“Almost there,” she assured him. “See that building up there? Rosehill Apartments? That’s where we’re headed.” She privately thought that this area of the city was a bit ritzier than she expected. If Belle’s apartment was as nice as the exterior of the building looked, she’d have to have a talk with Henry to make sure he didn’t break anything. Not that she thought that’d be an issue. She’d hit the jackpot with her well-behaved son.

The apple had fallen very far from the tree.

“We’ve been stuck in this traffic for _ages_ ,” Henry complained. “We’d get there faster by walking.” Sure enough, pedestrians on the sidewalk were making better time than the cars.

“Yeah, traffic in New York is a bi… pain,” she agreed. The light turned green for just long enough to let five cars through, leaving Emma as the sixth. Hopefully she’d be able to squeeze through next time it turned green. “So what do you think, kiddo? Excited for Christmas in the big city?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?” she asked incredulously. “You’ve been begging me to take you on a trip for ages! Every year, going on about how we never leave town. Remember last summer, when you were convinced that something bad happens whenever someone tries to leave Storybrooke?” 

Henry rolled his eyes. “I still say Mayor Mills was up to something,” he insisted.

“Well, we’re here, outside of Storybrooke for the first time in eight years. Nothing bad has happened--”

“Yet!”

“Yet,” Emma allowed as the light turned green. She managed to squeeze through the intersection just as the light turned red, and quickly turned into the apartment building’s parking garage. “But we’re here now, and we’re gonna have an awesome time. I did some research and have a whole list of cool stuff we can do while we’re here.” Finding an empty space, she quickly backed into it.

“And when’s Killian getting here?”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I deserve that.” Undoing her seatbelt, she turned to face her son. “I promise, Henry. Killian isn’t coming. It’s just you and me.” At his disbelieving look, she continued. “Look, kid, I know I’ve been a crap mom lately. I don’t have an excuse. All I can really say is I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

Wary brown eyes met her green. “How am I supposed to trust you when you’re always lying to me about everything?”

Emma’s heart cracked in her chest at Henry’s words. Yup. She really, really deserved this. “I… guess you’re not. It’s my job to show that you can trust me, and that’s probably gonna take time. Think you could give me one last chance?” She held out her arms to him.

Without hesitation, Henry leaned across the center console. Emma hugged him close to her chest, the leather sleeves of her favorite red jacket creaking at the elbows. Bending her head, she leaned in close enough to smell the watermelon scent of his shampoo. 

“Thanks, kid,” she whispered into his hair. “I promise I won’t let you down this time. No more lies.”

“I love you, mom.” Henry’s voice was muffled against her jacket.

“I love you too.” They hugged for another minute or so. Finally, Emma pulled back. “Now, what do you say we go inside and check out our digs for the next two weeks?”

Henry beamed at her. “Okay!”

Together, the pair dragged their duffel bags from the car and brought them to the lobby. Emma stopped dead in her tracks. The tile floors were buffed to a mirror shine under their feet, and with a wince she realized that she and Henry had tracked some muddy slush inside. Instead of fluorescent bulbs, the room was illuminated by wrought iron fixtures with soft light bulbs. As she nervously approached the mahogany front desk, the thought entered her mind that this could all be some sort of prank. This place was ridiculously fancy. Why would anybody who lived here want to spend her holiday in a cramped cabin in a podunk town instead of in a place like this? Praying that she wouldn’t have to see the disappointed look on her kid’s face if this all turned out to be a trick, she put on a brave face for the receptionist.

“Hey. Uh, my name’s Emma Swan. I’m here to pick up a key from a Belle French?”

“License, please,” the politely disinterested receptionist said. Emma handed it over, holding her breath for a full minute until she got her license, along with an electronic key card. “This isn’t a hotel, so there’s no checkout here, but Miss French indicated that you’ll be staying for two weeks. Is that correct?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The receptionist typed something into her computer. “Thank you for confirming. Your key card will be deactivated automatically at that time. Please be advised that if you lose your key card, we’ll need to call Miss French for approval before we can provide a new one.”

“Got it,” Emma said numbly. Jesus, just what kind of place was this? “Where, uh, where’s the room?”

The look she got in response told her that somehow, that was a stupid question. “Top floor, end of the hall,” she said slowly, as though speaking to a child. 

“Okay. Thanks.” She turned from the desk and leaned conspiratorily toward Henry, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. “Jeez. Fancy-schmancy place, huh?”

“Yeah!” He hitched his duffel bag higher up on his shoulder. “Can we go up now?”

“Well, that’s why we’re here.” They stepped onto the nearest elevator, looking incredibly out of place in their worn jeans, casual jackets, and knit caps. Emma followed the receptionist’s instructions, and soon they were cruising toward the top level.

“The elevator even has music,” Henry observed. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think places even did that anymore.” As the elevator slowly made its way up, she could see why. An elevator in a ten storey building got you to your floor quickly. This one had to carry them up more than fifty floors, and it took time. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator dinged, the doors opening to reveal a short, brightly lit hallway with only one door at the end. 

“Weird,” Emma muttered, ushering Henry toward the door. She scanned the card on the reader, swinging the door open to reveal...

No.

There had to be some sort of mistake. 

“Whoa!” Before she could do a thing to stop him, Henry bolted out of the elevator. “Holy smokes! Mom, get a look at this place!”

“Wait!” Henry froze at his mom’s command. With numb feet Emma somehow managed to disembark from the elevator. Her mouth was hanging open, and she knew she was gaping like a fish, but she couldn’t help it. When she’d found out she’d be staying in a New York City apartment, her first thought was, “please don’t let there be too many roaches.” As they’d gotten closer to their destination and saw how nice the buildings were, she’d been cautiously optimistic about getting a nice, clean pad with enough room for a mom and her kid to move around without practically stepping on each other. Once they got into the building, she figured the place would be bigger and nicer than she’d pictured.

Never, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined that they’d be spending two weeks in a penthouse apartment. This place had to be worth more than she’d make in a lifetime.

“Don’t… don’t touch anything,” Emma said weakly. “There must be some kind of mistake. I need to call Belle.” Henry reluctantly but obediently sat down in a leather armchair while she did just that, her foot tapping agitatedly while the phone rang.

On the third ring, Belle picked up. _“Hello?”_

“Hey, Belle. It’s, uh, Emma.”

 _"Oh, hey! I just got back from doing a little shopping and getting a bite to eat. How are you and your son settling in?”_ Emma was surprised to realize that Belle was Australian. Her voice sounded affable and kind.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I think there’s been some sort of mistake.”

Belle sighed huffily on the other end of the line. _“Did the front desk give you any trouble? I told them, it’s my flat, and I can let it out to whomever I please.”_

“No, no, they were… fine,” Emma assured her. “But I think there’s been a mix-up. This place… this is a _penthouse._ ”

 _“No mistake,”_ Belle confirmed. _“I, er, I do well for myself.”_

Clearly. “Jesus, what are you doing swapping homes with me? You really got the short end of the stick.”

 _“I disagree,”_ the other woman said simply. _“I needed to get away to somewhere remote. Your home is lovely, and exactly what I needed.”_ Before Emma could protest further, she continued. _“Really, Emma, please don’t worry. I want you and your son to have a good time. If you’re really uncomfortable, we can swap back. But don’t do it on my account.”_

Well, Emma wasn’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. Going home now would just put her right back where she was: tiptoeing around a son she’d hurt, and desperately trying to avoid an ex boyfriend a perverse part of her still wanted to be with. Besides, Henry seemed really excited about the place.

“Okay. We’ll stay.”

_"Perfect! I left instructions for the various electronics on sticky notes around the apartment. If you have any questions - any at all - call me.”_

“Yeah, you too. Not that I think you’ll need it. Our place is a bit simpler than yours.”

Once she and Belle finished their goodbyes, Emma hung up and turned to Henry, who was nearly vibrating with excitement in his seat.

“Alright, kiddo. I’ll race you to see who gets the best bedroom!”

“You’re on!” Henry scrambled out of the chair and bolted for the stairs, Emma hot on his heels.

******

Belle was just drying off the last of the dishes from dinner when she registered just how cold the cottage had gotten. Earlier, the sun had shone through the windows, adding a bit of extra warmth to the air. But now that night had fallen, the cold penetrated a bit more. Drawing the shades blocked the worst of the draft, but the chill still remained. She was bundled in her warmest pajama pants and knit sweater, and still shivering. Her fingers were freezing, and even with her fluffy socks and slippers on her feet could probably cool molten metal.

As luck would have it, Emma had stocked plenty of firewood by the fireplace. Even more fortunately, Belle knew how to light a fire safely. Clearing the various clutter off the mantelpiece - including an envelope labeled “Rent Check” that she’d really have to ask Emma about tomorrow - she placed two logs on the grate. Under the grate went some crumpled newspaper, with dry twigs on top of that. She was just about to open the vent and light the tinder and kindling, when a knock sounded at the door.

Odd. Who on earth would show up, presumably unannounced, to someone’s home after 8PM? Well, there was only one way to find out. “Who is it?” she called.

“It’s Mr. Gold.”

Well, that told her… nothing. Except, wait - wasn’t Mr. Gold the owner of the antique shop in town? What could he possibly want at this time of the night? 

The man’s voice grew impatient when she asked him just that. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Miss Swan.”

“I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not--”

“It’s bloody freezing out, so let me be brief: you can avoid me as much as you like, but you can’t avoid an eviction notice. So if I don’t have the rent check in my hand in five minutes--”

That was one mystery solved. Two actually: what this Mr. Gold wanted, and what Belle was supposed to do with the rent check. Hurrying over to the front door, she unlatched the deadbolt and wrenched the door open. 

Standing over the threshold was the most gorgeous man Belle had ever seen. Thin lips in a wide mouth, a long, slightly crooked nose, and a pair of beautiful brown eyes that had been narrowed in annoyance, but were now widening in confusion. High cheekbones were framed by long, medium brown hair showing the first hints of gray. His hair was kept longer in the back, curling around the collar of his finely-made wool coat. He looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. 

Belle was dimly aware that she was staring. She also realized that this man was dressed in what was probably a very nice suit under his coat, with black oxfords polished to a mirror shine, while she was here in her bulky, unflattering fleece pajama pants with the teacups on them, with her hair piled atop her head in a sloppy bun. Of course. Of course a sexy older man showed up on her doorstep looking absolutely immaculate while she was dressed like a slob. That was just how her luck worked, wasn’t it?

The silence stretched awkwardly between them. Finally, this Mr. Gold broke it, clearing his throat into his fist. “You… er, you’re not Miss Swan.”

“No. No, I’m not,” she replied, wincing internally. _Very smooth, Belle. Just state the obvious._ “My name’s Belle. Belle French. I’m staying here for a couple of weeks while Emma’s away.”

“Right.” 

They both stood there awkwardly for another full minute. Belatedly, Belle realized that Mr. Gold was shivering, his cheeks and nose reddened from the biting cold. “Oh! You must be freezing. Why don’t you come in for a bit?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Miss French. I’m just here for--”

“The rent check, yes.” Belle quickly weighed her options. She knew where the rent check was. She could hand it over and let him be on his merry way. But she really didn’t feel comfortable doing that without Emma’s approval.

Besides, if she could get this man inside, maybe she could learn a bit more about him.

“Well, here’s the thing: Emma’s out of town. I know where the check is, but it’s really not mine to give you.” He looked rather unhappy at her assertion, his lips pressing in a thin line. Regardless, Belle forged on. “Now, I was about to get a fire going and put the kettle on for tea. So you have two options: you can come in and warm yourself up while I call Emma and get this sorted, or you can come back tomorrow.”

Mr. Gold stared at her, looking flummoxed, and she wondered how often his tenants stood up to him. Probably not often. “I don’t make a habit of making social calls with my tenants,” he hedged.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not your tenant,” she replied firmly.

He nodded decisively at that. “Alright, then. Thank you.”

Belle stepped aside to let him in, and it was only then that she noticed that Mr. Gold walked with a cane: a long, black wooden shaft with an ornate gold handle. She quickly took his coat, fussing over hanging it on the nearby coat rack to keep herself from staring. God, what was it about a man in a well-cut suit that drove her wild? The fine black wool was perfectly tailored to enhance the lines of his spare frame, and the arm that gripped his cane showed the promising bulge of what was likely a _very_ nice bicep. He quickly settled on the end of the sofa closest to the fireplace, looking ill at ease.

“Let me just… er… get the kettle on. Then I’ll be back to light the fire.” She hurried into the kitchen and set the kettle under the running faucet. While it filled, she did what she could with her appearance. She yanked out her hair elastic, smoothing her hair over her shoulders in what she hoped were sexily tousled curls but suspected was a mass of staticky frizz. There was nothing she could do to make her bulky pajama pants look nice, but at least tugging the hems out from her socks made her look a bit less of a mess. She considered ditching her baggy, cream-colored wrap sweater, but decided that no man, no matter how devastatingly good-looking, was worth being that cold for. Besides, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and the material of her blouse was very thin.

Once the kettle was full and set over the stove’s burner, she returned to the living room to see Mr. Gold exactly as she’d left him: perched on the edge of the couch, feet planted firmly on the floor with his cane resting upright between them. She didn’t even realize that she’d paused in the doorway to admire him until he raised an eyebrow.

“Right. Fire.” Picking up where she left off, she opened the fireplace vent. She carefully lit the crumpled newspaper with a long match. Soon enough, the fire was crackling merrily, spreading warmth through the room.

“You look like you’ve done that before,” Mr. Gold observed.

“Oh, this?” She stood, dusting a bit of soot from her hands. “I like to learn new skills in my spare time.” She glanced at him, but quickly looked away, trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach. Getting him into the house had seemed like the obvious thing to do, but now that he was here, she had no idea how to act. Should she flirt, or act aloof? Join him on the couch, or take the armchair? No matter what she decided, she was unlikely to make much of an impression dressed as she was. Then she remembered: he wasn’t here to flirt. He was here as a landlord, just trying to collect the rent. “Let me just call Emma and see if I can get this straightened out.” Fleeing back to the kitchen, she quickly pulled up Emma’s number and dialled.

 _“Hello?”_ Emma answered. From the sound of it, it seemed that she and her son were watching TV. _“Henry, can you pause for a sec?”_ Suddenly, the background noise cut out.

“Hi Emma, it’s Belle. Sorry to bother you, but there’s a man here who says he needs the rent.”

Emma groaned. _“Ah shi - shoot. I knew I forgot something. The check’s on the mantelpiece.”_

Belle nodded, even though Emma couldn’t see. “Yeah, I saw it. I just wanted to make sure I was giving it to the right person. Didn’t want to get you in any trouble.”

_“Oh. Well, thanks, I appreciate that. So who is it: Gold, or Dove?”_

Dove? She wondered who that was. “He said his name was Mr. Gold.”

_"Gotcha. Scottish bastard, around fifty or so? Wears fancy suits and walks with a cane? Oozes a smug sense of superiority?”_

“I don’t know that I’d go that far…”

 _“I would, and further. Anyway, yeah, if that’s the guy, you can give him the check.”_ Emma sighed. _“I’m so sorry you have to deal with him. I swear once he has his money he’ll be out of your hair completely.”_

If it had been anyone else, Belle would have been relieved to hear it. But she wouldn’t mind keeping this man _in_ her hair for a while longer. “It’s no trouble at all,” she assured the other woman. “I’ll let you two get back to your movie.” 

_“Thanks.”_

When she got back to the living room, Mr. Gold had pivoted slightly to face the fire. She must have made some noise, because he immediately turned toward her, an expectant look on his face. 

“Emma vouched for you,” she announced without preamble, digging the envelope out from under the pile of items she’d taken off the mantel. He accepted it readily, tucking it into an inner pocket of his jacket without opening it. “You’re not going to make sure it’s right?”

“It will be.” His tone didn’t imply a surfeit of faith in Emma’s honesty so much as an absolute assurance that she wouldn’t cross him. Once the envelope was out of sight and his jacket put to rights, both hands came to rest on the handle of his cane. There was a ring with a large, pale stone on the third finger of his right hand. The third finger of his left hand was bare, and as smoothly tanned as the rest of his skin. Belle was so fixated on his hands that she nearly missed when he spoke again. “I assume if Miss Swan is out of town and you’re here, you’re… house-sitting?”

“In a manner of speaking, yeah.” Belle played with the hem of one of her sleeves. “We sort of… traded homes for the holidays. She and her son are in New York, and I’m here.” 

He scoffed quietly, glancing around the cramped room. “It sounds like Miss Swan got the better end of the bargain.” One corner of his lips quirked up in a wry smirk.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Belle disagreed. “I think this place is charming. It has exactly what I was looking for.”

He leaned forward almost imperceptibly. If her gaze hadn’t been riveted on him, she might have missed it. “Which is?”

“Solitude. I wanted to go somewhere I wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Ah. I understand.” His face hadn’t been open before, exactly, but now it was like a portcullis slammed shut. Before she knew it he was on his feet, limping toward the coat rack.

“What? Wait, understand what?” Belle gestured vaguely, her hands fluttering pointlessly in the air.

“I am many things, Miss French, but I’m not one to overstay my welcome. Now that I have what I came here for, I can be on my way.” Leaning on the wall so he could shrug into his coat without needing to support himself with his cane, he quickly fastened the buttons. “But I thank you for the hospitality.”

“Wait!” His hand was already on the doorknob, but he stopped. “I wasn’t trying to tell you to leave,” she said hastily. “You can still stay for tea, warm up a little longer. If you want.”

He hesitated, staring at her with that inscrutable gaze of his. His grip loosened on the doorknob, and for a brief moment she thrilled with the thought that she might have convinced him to stay. But then he shook his head. “It’s late,” he said by way of explanation. “By the time tea is ready…” A pause, as though considering what to say next. “It’s late,” he finally repeated.

“Oh.” She couldn’t help the disappointed ache in her chest. “Well… I’ll be here for two weeks. Maybe I’ll see you in town?”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Perhaps. Good evening, Miss French.”

“Good night, Mr. Gold.” And with that he was gone, the cold night air displacing his presence in her living room. 

As if on cue, the shriek of the kettle rang through the small cottage. Of course. Just her luck. Trudging to the kitchen, she turned off the stove with a turn of the knob, and elected to pour herself a glass of wine instead. She settled on the couch with her drink and her laptop, choosing the cushion closest to the fire only because it was the warmest. She booted up her computer and opened her blank Word document. Hopefully tonight she’d write something worth keeping.

******

As the credits rolled at the end of the movie, Emma stretched and yawned. Belle’s flat-screen TV was enormous, and connected to every last streaming service out there. She’d even set up a guest account on each one for “Emma & Henry.” If she weren’t determined to show Henry the time of his life by cramming in every experience New York City had to offer around Christmastime, she’d be sorely tempted to just spend the next two weeks snuggling with him on the couch.

Not that that was exactly an option. While Henry’s mood was improved since the sullen car ride, he’d sat on the opposite end of the couch from her. Ever since he was a toddler, they always cuddled while they watched movies. Always. And while it was possible that he’d finally reached an age where he didn’t want to curl up with his mom on the couch anymore, Emma had a feeling that she still had a lot of work to do to regain his trust. Hopefully this vacation would be a good first step.

Not for the first time that evening, she thanked her lucky stars for Belle French, whoever the woman was. When Emma put her home up on that website, she hadn’t really expected to get any responses. Who on earth would want to stay in Storybrooke during the holidays? And even if someone did, why would they want to stay in her cramped, isolated home instead of one of the cozy rooms at Granny’s? 

But by some miracle, Belle did, and Emma was so grateful for the opportunity to bond with Henry worry-free. They’d spent an hour just exploring the penthouse with all its amenities: marveling at the home theater system, taking in the small gymnasium (which Emma was tempted to take advantage of), bouncing on the beds, playing with the dimmer switches, and so on. If Emma had her way, she and Henry were going to have one hell of a game of Hide and Seek this week. The only room Emma deemed off-limits was some sort of office. It was dominated by a large computer desk with a desktop computer and various large stacks of paper. Whatever it was, Emma didn’t want to risk making a mess of that room.

As Emma cleared the detritus of their dinner, Henry flipped through the movies to pick what they watched next. “Keep it under two hours, kid,” she told him. “I want to be up bright and early tomorrow. We’ve got lots of sights to see.”

“Okay, mom.”

She was just heading back to the living room from the kitchen when a buzzing sound alerted her to a blinking light on the panel next to the door leading to the stairwell. She approached it uncertainly. The blinking light turned out to be a button labeled “intercom.” The buzzing sounded again. With a shrug, she pushed the button.

“Uh, hello?” she asked.

For a few moments, there was no response. Then, a man’s voice: _“Whoa. You’re not Belle.”_

“Nope. She’s on vacation. I’m watching the place ‘til she gets back.”

_“No shit! She actually took my advice? Never thought I’d see the day.”_

“Uh, I guess. Sorry, can I help you?”

_“Oh, right, my bad. Belle asked me to pick up a box of her ex’s crap to bring back to him. Think you could let me in? It’ll only take a second.”_

Come to think of it, Belle had mentioned in an email that a friend was coming over today for a box labeled “Greg’s Crap.” Emma had just assumed that the friend would be a woman. 

“Yeah, sure.” She opened the door, and the world dropped out from under her feet. There, standing before her, was a man with curly black hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile that had once made a teenaged girl make the stupidest mistake of her life. Her ex, and Henry’s father. “Neal?”

The smile immediately faded. “Emma?”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Me? What are _you_ doing here?” He sounded almost offended by her presence here, and wasn’t that rich? If anybody had the right to be pissed off, it sure as hell wasn’t him.

“Babe? Do you two know each other?” Emma did a double-take. She’d been so floored by seeing Neal after so many years that she hadn’t even noticed the beautiful woman at his side. She was tall and willowy, with skin the color of mahogany and silky black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall.

Emma glanced down at herself - at the coffee-stained sweatpants and ratty band T-shirt she’d changed into - and god, wasn’t that just insult to injury? Bad enough she had to see her ex again after over ten years. Worse to see the gorgeous girlfriend on his arm. But couldn’t she at least have looked halfway decent, herself?

Neal turned toward his… girlfriend? Wife? Whatever she was… and said, “Tamara, could you wait for me down in the lobby?”

“But--”

“Please. I’ll explain later.” 

Tamara glanced warily between Neal and Emma. “Okay,” she said, making no secret of her reluctance as she turned and walked toward the elevator.

Neal waited until she got in the elevator before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, of all the people I expected to open that door, it sure as hell wasn’t you.” He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. “You, uh, you look good.”

“Cut the crap, Neal,” she snarled. “After what you pulled, you’ve got a lot of nerve trying to butter me up.”

“After what _I_ pulled?” he asked incredulously, laying a hand on his chest. “What about what _you_ did? After you--”

“Mom? Who is it?” Henry asked. 

Emma turned around, feeling the blood draining from her face. Henry was standing in the threshold of the living room, looking uncertainly between his mother and the man he didn’t know was his father. God, it couldn’t get any worse, could it? All she needed now was for Killian to show up. That would truly be the cherry on top of this shit sundae. She looked back at Neal, sure that any second now he’d recognize the kid as his and make an enormous scene. But there was no dawning realization on her ex’s tanned face as he looked at his son. There was no expression apart from polite indifference.

Okay. She could do this. She just had to play it cool: get Henry out of the room, send Neal on his merry way with the box of crap, and put all of this behind her. “Just someone who knows the lady who lives here,” she explained. “He’s gotta pick up a box of stuff. Why don’t you go start the next movie? I’ll be right in.”

“Okay…” His eyes darted between them again, clearly not convinced by Emma’s cover story, but willing to drop it for now. He disappeared into the darkened living room, and soon music blared over the surround sound.

One down, one to go. She faced Neal again, but before she could say anything, he beat her to the punch. “You have a kid, huh?”

She should play it off, she knew. So she had a kid. No big deal; certainly nothing for Neal to worry about. Just act casual. Instead, what came out of her mouth was snappish and defensive. “Look, don’t go pretending to be my friend here. I don’t want to see you, and you don’t want to see me. So why don’t you just take the box and go, and we can go back to never seeing each other again.”

He scowled. “Fine. Sounds good to me. Hand it over.” She did. He held it close to his chest. “Have a good life, Em.”

“Whatever.” She closed the door firmly behind her, leaning her back against it with a ragged sigh.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Over eight million people in this city, and the one guy she didn’t want to see showed up on her doorstep on the first day. Of course. Things had been going so well - too well. Of course something had to go wrong.

“Mom, are you coming?” Henry called.

“Be right there!”

Well, it didn’t matter now. She’d managed to get Neal out of here without him being any the wiser that he had a son. He had no reason to come back. She and Henry could spend the rest of their holiday in peace. Her son would never have to find out that everything he knew about his dad was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have no idea how NYC penthouse apartments work. I've never been in one, and probably never will.
> 
> People who have watched the movie are probably ready to beat me over the head for not having Gold and Belle bang the night they met. But that didn't seem to be the story that's being told for these two.
> 
> Chapter title yoinked from Arthur's line in The Holiday. Even though these meet-cutes weren't that cute.


	3. There's a Strange Man Inside Who Knows What I Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added dates to this story to keep myself on track and give myself some form of structure.

_ December 17th _

One of the best things about being a successful novelist was that Belle got to make her own hours. If she wanted to stay up until 4am because “just one more sentence” turned into “just one more paragraph” turned into “let me just finish this chapter,” she could simply sleep in the next day. In fact, she did this so often that anyone who knew her knew never to call before 10am.

Which was why she was less than thrilled to be receiving a call at… She checked the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her.

8am?  _ Ungodly. _

Without even glancing at her phone, or even moving it from where it lay on the nightstand, she accepted the call and activated the speakerphone. “Whoever this is, it had better be good,” she grumbled.

_ “Well hello to you too, Sunshine,” _ Neal’s voice said over the speaker.

“Oh my god, Neal, why would you ever call me this early?” she demanded, shoving her face into the pillow.

_ “Well, I’m out of your reach for the next two weeks, so I figured now’s the time to really get on your nerves while you can’t threaten to throttle me,” _ he joked.

“Neal…”

_ "Kidding. I’m kidding.”  _ He sighed, and his tone grew sober.  _ “I just couldn’t wait any longer to ask: did you know?” _

Had she missed something, or was he just being obnoxiously vague? “Know what?”

_ “About Emma.” _

That got her attention. Had Emma stolen from her? Vandalized her apartment? Brought Greg in and had sex with him on her bed? Lit the building on fire? She should have known this whole thing was a bad idea. Sitting up, she switched the phone off speaker and held it to her ear. 

“What about her?”

_ “So you didn’t know?” _

She was going to  _ kill _ Neal if he didn’t make his point, and make it soon. “Neal, will you just tell me what this is about?” she snapped, raking her free hand through her hair. It snagged in her tangled curls, and she had to carefully pull it free.

_ “Emma’s my ex. We dated, like, ten or eleven years ago.” _

“What?!” Somehow, that was even more surprising than the various other catastrophes her brain had cooked up. The shock of that revelation shook the last of the sleep from her head. “Are you sure?”

_ “Well, she recognized me first, so yeah,”  _ he said.  _ “It was weird seeing her after so long. I mean, you change a lot between when you’re seventeen and when you’re twenty-eight. But she looked… good.” _

That little pause he injected into his sentence was intriguing. Belle wasn’t about to jump to conclusions, but she could do a little digging. “So did you two catch up?”

He grunted.  _ “Not really. Our breakup… wasn’t great. Besides, Tamara was there, and Emma’s kid…” _ He trailed off.  _ “God, she has a kid! How weird is that? I’m almost thirty and it still seems weird that people our age are getting pregnant on purpose.” _

Belle went cold.  _ She has a kid. _ She hadn’t given much thought to Emma’s son, apart from making sure that the apartment didn’t have anything lying around that would be dangerous for a ten year old boy to get into. But if her suspicion was correct, then her little impulsive vacation was about to make Neal’s life much more complicated.

“Neal,” she said slowly, “how long ago did you say you two dated?”

_ “I dunno, ten, eleven years? Why?” _

She should stay out of it. She should really stay out of it. Emma hadn’t told Neal about her son, and maybe there was a good reason for that. Maybe the baby really wasn’t his. But if she were in his position, she’d want to know.

“Neal… Emma’s son is ten,” she said quietly.

For several moments, the line was completely silent. Belle checked her phone screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. Finally,  _ “Holy shit. You think… you think he’s mine?” _

“I don’t know!” she said hastily. “I’ve never met either of them, so I really don’t know. But… it sounds like it might be a possibility.”

_ “Shiiit.”  _ He paused.  _ “What the hell am I supposed to do here? I was planning on proposing to Tamara on Christmas!” _

“Well, maybe you still can,” Belle said reasonably, pulling a face at the idea of Tamara being a permanent fixture in Neal’s life. “Look, Neal, you don’t even know if he’s your son. So first things first, figure out what sort of relationship you’d want, if it turns out he’s yours. No sense getting his hopes up if you’re not interested in being a dad. If you are, talk to Emma. It could be that you’re not the boy’s dad, or she doesn’t need you involved. If he  _ is _ your son,  _ that’s  _ when you really need to see what Tamara thinks.”

_ “Yeah.” _ She could almost see him nodding and rubbing his nose, the way he always did when she had a good idea (which was often).  _ “Yeah, you’re right. I just… I just need to do one thing at a time.” _ His break huffed in a heavy sigh.  _ “Jesus. You couldn’t just go on vacation, could you? You had to make things complicated.” _

“Don’t I always?”

_ “Yeah, true. So what about you? What sort of ‘complicated’ have you run into wherever you are?” _ Before she could respond, he snapped his fingers.  _ “Wait, no, let me guess: you found some long lost family member you had no idea existed.” _

“God, I hope not,” she muttered jokingly, thinking back to Mr. Gold’s visit last night. Obviously there was no relation there. Still, given his abrupt departure, she had a feeling that “complicated” wouldn’t begin to describe any future interactions she had with the man. “Anyway, now that I’m up, I might as well try and get some more writing in. Unless there was something else you wanted to talk about?”

_ "God no. I think we’ve covered plenty.” _

“True.” Belle bit her lip. She couldn’t leave the conversation off like this; the guilt would eat away at her all day. “Listen, Neal… No matter what happens, or what you decide, if you need to talk, I’m here.”

_ "Thanks, Belle. You're a good friend." _

"Well, just remember that the next thing I make things unnecessarily complicated."

******

It was around noontime when Belle finally pushed back from her laptop with a stretch and a yawn. As much as she would have loved to, she just couldn’t fall back asleep after her conversation with Neal, so she’d put the extra time to good use by writing. Every word came to her roughly as easily as pulling teeth from a rabid wolverine, but at least she was making progress. Now her stomach was reminding her that all she’d had for breakfast was a banana, and she could really stand to eat something a bit more substantial. 

On a whim, she decided to head into town for lunch. That diner she’d passed the day before looked promising for a simple but filling bite to eat. She pulled one of her nice dresses off its hanger - the lacy, royal blue sleeveless number with the flared skirt. She took special care with her hair and makeup, making sure her eyeliner was even and her lipstick didn’t feather. A pair of towering black heels completed the ensemble. Now that she was looking her best, she could go out. This was all for her own benefit, of course. She certainly wasn’t hoping to run into a certain handsome, well-dressed older gentleman.

Throwing her white wool coat on over the dress, she left the house. The drive was quick, and soon she was parking on the street in front of Granny’s Diner. The interior of the restaurant was warm and inviting, festooned with holiday garlands and ribbons. Several booths and tables were occupied with other people who had come for lunch, but there were still plenty of seats available.

“You can sit wherever. I’ll be with you in a sec,” the establishment’s sole waitress called over her shoulder. 

Belle elected for a stool at the counter, shrugging out of her coat and draping it over the seat. She winced as her bruised backside came in contact with the hard stool. She’d done a number on herself; when she’d checked it this morning, her left buttcheek was as vivid a blue as her dress. 

Soon the waitress was back with silverware and a menu. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

A quick glance at the beverages section showed exactly what she was looking for. She was nothing if not predictable. “Yes, I’d love an iced tea, please.” 

“You got it.” The waitress returned with her drink in moments, but hesitated as though she wanted to say something else. She leaned her elbows on the counter, clearly confident enough in its cleanliness not to worry about getting the sleeves of her fuzzy red sweater dirty. “So… are you the one who’s staying at Emma’s place?” she whispered.

“Um… yes?”

A slow grin spread across the brunette’s pretty face. Her nametag indicated that her name was Ruby. “I thought so! We don’t get many tourists, and I didn’t see you at the hotel.” She glanced cautiously around the diner, then leaned a bit closer. “Listen, nobody in town knows where Emma is except for me and another friend. She needs some time alone with her kid to get her head on straight. So it’d be really great if you wouldn’t tell anybody.”

Oh, great. Now Belle felt  _ awful _ for telling Neal about Emma’s son. And for having Neal go there to get Greg’s stuff to begin with. But that bell couldn’t be unrung.

“I won’t tell anyone in town,” she promised.

“Great! And hey, you can have a dessert on the house. Consider it a ‘Welcome to Storybrooke’ gift.”

“Thanks.”

Perusing the menu, Belle’s eyes went automatically to the salad section before she even realized what she was doing. Greg used to love policing what she ate: counting calories, proselytizing about the evils of carbs, and going on about how much hotter she’d be if she could just shed another five pounds. Never mind that when she  _ had _ shed five pounds after the first time he’d cheated, he still found faults with her body. Even sneaking a hamburger or a piece of chocolate wasn’t worth the blazing row that would result if he found out. By the end of their relationship, she’d limited herself to eating salads in his presence just to keep the peace.

Enough of that. Today she was going to have a big, juicy burger, gooey with cheese, on a sesame seed bun instead of a lettuce wrap, and she was going to enjoy every last bite. And hell, she was going to go all-out and get half fries and half onion rings. She was on vacation, dammit, and she deserved to spoil herself a little.

When the burger came out, she immediately picked it up and sank her teeth into it with a moan. The bell above the door rang behind her, but she didn’t bother looking over her shoulder to see who had entered. She was too busy devouring the best burger she’d had in her life.

“Be right with you!” Ruby called from the back.

“Oh my god,” Belle moaned after she swallowed her second bite, “that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” The beef was perfectly seasoned and grilled, the tomato juicy and the lettuce crisp. God, this whole trip was worth it just for the hamburger alone.

An elderly woman with her curly hair pulled into a matronly bun peeked out the kitchen window. “All that noise over a burger? I know my cooking’s good, girl, but it can’t be  _ that _ good,” she said.

“After years of getting into an argument any time I wanted one? This is a perfect send-off to a bad relationship.” She raised her burger in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, Greg. May my life be as juicy and delicious as this burger, and may yours be chalky and bland like those horrible protein shakes you’re always drinking.” And with that, she took another hearty bite.

Someone chuckled behind her.

She froze. Cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s from the bite of food she’d stopped chewing, she slowly swiveled around in her stool. Sure enough, standing just behind her was Mr. Gold, looking just as well put together as he had last night. The purple dress shirt and tie stood out sharply from his charcoal gray suit. His lips were curved in an amused, lopsided smirk.

It just wasn’t fair. She’d dated a disgustingly handsome model - an actual, successful model - for years, and managed never to make a fool of herself. Not once. She’d met this man twice in less than a day, and his only impression of her was a woman in frumpy pajamas who, apparently, became a huge dork the moment she was presented with a cheeseburger.

Ridiculous.

Realizing that she was staring at Mr. Gold, still with her cheeks stuffed with cheeseburger, she hastily chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a sip of iced tea. Once she recovered, she breathlessly said, “Mr. Gold! Hi!”

“Miss French, what a pleasant surprise. I was under the impression you’d be keeping to yourself.” His right hand twiddled idly with the handle of his cane.

Belle smiled shyly up at him. “Well, I did say I’d see you in town, didn’t I?”

His smile brightened at that to something more genuine. “That you did.” His gaze flickered over her uncertainly, as though unsure exactly where to look. “And how are you finding our quaint little town?”

“Well, I haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet,” she admitted. “But I was thinking of exploring a bit after lunch.”

“Good. Good.” 

The silence stretched between them. A few times, Mr. Gold’s mouth opened, as though he wanted to say something, but quickly snapped back shut. Belle, for her part, had no idea what to say. Apart from his dress sense and occupation, she really knew nothing about this man. 

“Hey, Gold.” The waitress, Ruby, leaned over the counter and thrust a rolled up wad of bills towards him. “Rent money. It’s all there.”

And there it was: that same shuttered look she’d seen last night, when he thought Belle was trying to politely kick him out. “Of course it is, dear.” He accepted the money without bothering to count it, tucking it into his trouser pocket. He remained where he stood, brushing a bit of lint from his shoulder and straightening his tie. His eyes darted to Belle, then away.

“Was there something else you needed, Mr. Gold?” Ruby asked, looking distinctly unhappy at the prospect.

“No, of course not.” Giving himself a little shake, Mr. Gold pivoted on his good heel and left the diner, the bell above the door tinkling with his exit.

“Jerk,” Ruby muttered. “Anyway, sorry about that. Hope he didn’t ruin your lunch.”

“Not at all,” Belle assured her, digging into her food once more. The burger had cooled, but was no less delicious for it. She polished it off with relish, patting her stomach contentedly when she finished. She paid the bill, foregoing Ruby’s offer of a free dessert, and left the diner with a destination in mind.

So far, she’d only seen Mr. Gold in the capacity of a landlord collecting rent. She wanted to see what he was like in a more informal setting. Besides, her wounded pride demanded that she make a better third impression than the first two. She didn’t have his phone number, and she didn’t know where he lived. But she knew where his shop was, and had the perfect excuse to pop in. It would do.

Shivering in her wool coat, she quickly made her way across the street toward the pawn shop, thankful that the roads and sidewalks weren’t icy. Her ass was still sore from the spill she’d taken yesterday, and she wasn’t looking to make a repeat performance. She hurried through the door, pushing it quickly shut behind her to keep the chill out. 

She had a vague impression of gray damask wallpaper and glass display cases framed in dark wood. The shades were drawn, blocking any natural light from entering the shop. Antiques and curios cluttered every available surface, even hanging from the walls and ceiling. Framed artwork, musical instruments, porcelain china sets, and items of every description only caught Belle’s passing attention. Her focus was on the man behind the counter busily polishing a silver tea tray. He looked up from his task, dropping his polishing rag in surprise.

“Miss French.”

“Mr. Gold.” She really would have to learn his first name at some point, and get him to use hers. She was starting to feel like a character in a regency novel. “Just the person I was looking for.”

“Oh?” He set the tea tray down, bracing his hands against the counter. His smile was small, but his eyes crinkled and warmed.

Belle debated for a moment whether to keep her coat on or not. The air in the shop wasn’t cold by any means, but it wasn’t nearly as warm and cozy as the diner. Probably in deference to Mr. Gold’s wardrobe. The man cut a dashing figure in his three piece suits, but they weren’t exactly made for breathability. Still, she’d dressed to be seen, and seen she would be. She started unbuttoning her coat, taking note of how Mr. Gold stilled. Shrugging out of it, she draped it over one arm. His eyes swept slowly down, down, past her skirt to linger at her legs, down further to her impractical shoes, and back up to her heated face. Oh yes, she’d definitely made the right choice when she chose her outfit.

Clearing her throat, she dragged her focus back to the matter at hand. “Yeah. I was looking for something in particular, and I have it on good authority that you’re the man to ask.” 

“Ah.” For a brief second, she thought he looked almost disappointed. But as quickly as the look was there it vanished, leaving behind a smooth, professional veneer. “I’m afraid I don’t offer loans to non-residents of Storybrooke.”

Belle blinked, then frowned. “What? Loans for what?”

He looked at her askance. “Money. What else?” he asked as though it were obvious. Maybe to everyone else in town, it was.

“Wait, let me get this straight: you’re a landlord, you own and run a combination pawnshop and antique store,  _ and _ you’re a money lender?” With slow, sure steps, she crossed the room to stand before the counter. “What other fields of work do you do?”

That amused, lopsided smirk was back. Belle’s stomach flipped at the sight. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

“A ‘jack of all trades, master of none’?” she teased, leaning her elbows on the counter.

“‘Though oftentimes better than master of one,’” he said, finishing the quote. His eyes flickered down for just a split second before returning to her eyes. He licked his lips. “Forgive me, Miss French, but if you didn’t come here for a loan, why are you here?”

Belle swallowed to quell the rising swarm of butterflies that were fluttering in her stomach. Outside in the chilly December air, her excuse to visit him had seemed like a good one. Here, under the weight of those whiskey-brown eyes, she wasn’t so sure. But she was here now, for better or worse.

“I was looking for a souvenir - something to remember this trip by. I was told that this was the place to look.” She’d been told no such thing, but he didn’t know that.

If his skeptical look was any clue, he hadn’t fallen for her ruse one bit. Still, he was polite enough not to call her out on it. “I see,” he said. “And what exactly were you looking for?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? She let her gaze travel slowly around the shop, really absorbing all of the antiques for the first time. The wall behind Mr. Gold was adorned with framed paintings, which Belle had neither the eye nor the knowledge to label as originals or skilled copies. She didn’t have company over enough to justify purchasing a china or tea set. She had no intention of learning a musical instrument. There was no empty place in her life that would be filled by snow shoes or a crystal unicorn crib mobile or decorative wooden windmill. Of course, she could always buy something, bring it home, and cram it in a quiet corner somewhere, somewhere she’d never look at it again. But why waste the money on something she didn’t actually want to keep?

Eventually, her eye settled on a cherry wood hutch crammed in the far back corner of the shop. The dim ceiling lights glinted off of the gilding on a handful of neatly shelved, leather bound books. Perfect. She had a small collection of rare leather bound books at home. Generally, she bought herself one every time she finished the first draft of a novel, as sort of a reward. Maybe she was cheating, buying herself an extra book now. But why not live a little?

“A book,” she said decisively. “I’d like to buy a book.” She gestured toward the hutch. “May I?”

“By all means.” Mr. Gold waved a hand, signaling her to precede him to the case. Grabbing his gold-handled cane, he soon followed behind. He stood just over her shoulder, not close enough to actually touch her, to her disappointment. But every time she shifted, even slightly, the edge of her flared skirt brushed ever so lightly against his trousers. Her focus zeroed in on that not-quite-contact to the exclusion of all else.

“Each of these volumes is in its original binding, printed on archival paper with gilded edges,” he murmured, the puff of his breath just barely stirring the hair at the back of her head. “Every one is accented with twenty-two karat gold, and contains a silk ribbon page marker.”

“Moire fabric end pages?”

“Of course. The binding is…”

Mr. Gold continued to describe the books in detail, his passion for his wares bleeding through every word. Belle wondered if he was as knowledgeable about everything else in the shop. He probably was. The velvety tones of his voice caressed every inch of her from head to toe, settling low in her belly. Like any true bibliophile, Belle could talk about books all day. Usually, she only had the opportunity to discuss the contents of a book: plot; themes, characterization, prose, and so forth. It was a rare occasion that she could discuss the actual work that went into a book: materials, construction, and restoration. And she’d certainly never been this turned on talking about binding materials and concealed joints before. 

Eventually they both lapsed into silence. Unlike last night, there was no awkwardness between them; in the privacy of his shop, Mr. Gold showed none of the reluctance he’d shown at the cottage, and none of the coldness and reserve he’d shown when Ruby interrupted them at the diner. He was certainly quick to withdraw at the slightest hint that he was unwelcome. Belle suspected that he was uncomfortable with most of the denizens of the town. She wondered why that was.

But that wasn’t the case here. In the dusky confines of his shop, surrounded by the items he’d acquired over the years, the pawnbroker was in his element. Still not an exuberant man, he nonetheless exuded quiet confidence and intensity that was absent in her previous interactions with him. Belle couldn’t help fancying that she was the only one who got to see this side of him. She found herself wanting to peel back all of his layers, physical and emotional, until he was laid bare before her.

Slowly, cautiously, Belle leaned back on her heels until she could feel the heat of him in the chill air of the shop. She shivered. The flesh of her arms raised in goosebumps. Behind her, she heard the breath catch in Mr. Gold’s throat. She half expected him to step away, reclaim some of the space between them. He didn’t.

“Has anything caught your attention?” he murmured. 

Belle looked over her shoulder. The nearest overhead light illuminated Mr. Gold from behind, highlighting the strands of silver in his hair and casting his face in shadow. He leaned forward, just a little, his breath fanning over her face. Afraid to break the spell, Belle forewent turning properly, choosing instead to crane her neck a bit further. She tilted her chin up in invitation. His head tipped down toward hers.

“I--”

The door swung open, the ringing of the bell breaking the spell between them. In stepped a tall, good-looking man with short, dark blond hair.

“Gold, you here? I need… oh.”

Mr. Gold recoiled with a hiss as though he’d been burned, taking three limping steps away from her. His face was shuttered and cold once more. Belle, for her part, resisted the urge to glower at the man who had interrupted them.

“Yes, Mr. Nolan, how can I help you?” Mr. Gold asked, sounding as though he’d rather be doing anything else.

The blond man’s eyes darted between the two of them. “I can come back if I’m interrupting,” he offered.

Oh, how Belle wanted to take him up on his offer. She so badly wanted to see where things might go with Mr. Gold. He fascinated her in a way no man ever had before. But his stiff posture and the thin line of his mouth told her that the moment developing between them had been well and truly lost.

“No, I was just choosing a book to buy,” she said. She turned back to Mr. Gold with a warm smile, trying to convey without words just how interested she was in getting to know him better. If he received the message, he gave no indication. She pointed to a book bound in sage green leather, careful not to touch. “I’d like to buy this copy of  _ The Return of the Native, _ please.”

Mr. Gold nodded, carefully pulling the book free and bringing it to the front. The front cover was trimmed in concentric rectangles of golden scrollwork in beautiful vine patterns. He rang the purchase up on the antique cash register that Belle had assumed was just for show. They finished the transaction without a word, Mr. Gold keeping his eyes firmly on his work despite Belle trying subtly to catch his eye. With meticulous precision, he wrapped the book in acid free tissue paper, placing it carefully into a bag along with the hand-written receipt and a business card. He handed the bag to her, his eyes staring somewhere beyond her right shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said. What else was there to say.

“Good day, Miss French.”

That was a dismissal if she’d ever heard one. Tugging her coat back on while juggling her handbag and her new purchase, she made her way toward the door. The stranger - Mr. Nolan? - stepped aside with an awkward wince. As she stepped through the door, she heard him speak. 

“Anyway, Gold, I need a gift for Mary Margaret…”

With an irritated sigh, Belle crossed the street toward her car. She climbed into the little blue coupe and slammed the door shut behind her. Immediately, one hand dug through the plastic bag, pulling out the receipt and business card. The book would stay in its wrapper until she got back to New York, but this she wanted to see now. Mr. Gold’s penmanship was, unsurprisingly, neat and precise. Just like the rest of him. More important was the business card for Mr. Gold Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer. Printed on high quality card stock, there was little to set it aside from any other business card. Disappointingly, his full name wasn’t on it. It seemed that everyone simply knew this man as “Mr. Gold.” His first name, and his reason for hiding, was quite the enigma. And Belle had never been able to resist a good mystery.

There was one other point of interest: the contact details printed at the very bottom. Whether he’d meant to or not, Mr. Gold had given her his cell number. Sinking her teeth into her pleased smile, Belle started formulating a plan. It seemed that while Mr. Gold was interested in her - hopefully as much as she liked him - he refused to make a move where anyone else could see. If she wanted to make any headway with the man, she needed to find a way to get him alone. Preferably somewhere where there would be no interruptions.

Already weighing her options, she started her car and drove back to the cottage. With luck, by the end of the day she’d have a few more chapters written, and a plan in place to seduce the town’s resident landlord/pawnbroker/moneylender/antiques dealer. With a little more, maybe she’d unearth another talent or two of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make some chapters strictly from Belle's POV, and some from Emma's. This will keep things moving a bit faster, I hope. I can crunch more story into each chapter if I'm not trying to figure out what the other person is doing. Some chapters might switch back and forth, while others will stick with one.
> 
> If anyone is interested in throwing questions or prompts my way, you can hit me up at my Tumblr, deliriumsdelight7.tumblr.com. I still have yet to actually write someone else's prompt, but my Ask box is always open if you'd like to hit me up.
> 
> Chapter title inspired by "A Shop With Books In" by The Bookshop Band.


	4. It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get your hopes up for this chapter, Rumbellers. This chapter is exclusively from Emma's POV.

_December 18th_

Emma rose with the sun, as she did every day. Having a groggy kid to roust out of bed and get ready for school five days a week had dragged her kicking and screaming from night owl to early bird years ago. Even on weekends and the rare week off, she still couldn’t bring herself to fall back asleep once the first ray of sunlight hit her eyes in the morning. With a stretch and a jaw-cracking yawn, she reluctantly left the nest of decadent, fluffy white pillows and quilt. By instinct she winced as her feet hit the floor, bracing herself for the shock of cold from the hardwood. Instead, the floor was pleasantly warm underfoot.

Oh, right - this place had _heated floors._ If somebody had asked her three days ago what she thought about heated floors, she probably would have said they were a pointless waste of money. Why run up your energy bill when you could just throw on a pair of slippers? But man, it was nice to be able to get up for a middle of the night pee without her feet turning into icicles. 

Padding down the stairs and into the obscenely huge kitchen, Emma poured some coffee grounds into the stainless steel coffee maker, filling the tank with enough water for a couple of cups and hitting the Start button. The appliance gurgled and steamed, and soon the kitchen was filled with the bitter, roasty scent of percolating coffee. While it brewed, she rummaged through the cabinet and pulled out a white mug with “World’s Okayest Friend” printed on one side. As soon as the coffee maker beeped, Emma poured herself a cup. A little cream, a little sugar, and she was all set for a quiet morning. 

Curling up on the couch in the living room, she took a slow swallow, letting the coffee’s warmth run down her throat to her stomach. She hummed contentedly. She loved spending time with Henry - answering his questions, hearing his thoughts on whichever video game currently held his attention, helping with him with his homework - but the first thirty minutes of the day were quiet and soothing. It was a time to gather her thoughts before the day began.

Yesterday had been a good day for her and Henry. After a quick breakfast, they’d bought a pair of cheap, neon green plastic sleds and spent the rest of the morning in Central Park, hunting down the best hills and sliding down the fresh powder. By lunchtime they were sweating and panting from the effort of climbing up the hill over and over, their noses reddened from the chill December air. Shivering and laughing, they went back to the penthouse for lunch and a warming cup of hot chocolate. 

Then it was back out to check out the famous New York City holiday window displays. Some of the displays contained the sort of traditional, Christmassy things she expected. Toy trains, nutcrackers, pine trees, candy canes, and jolly old St. Nicks galore. There were blue and white Hanukkah displays with menorahs and dreidels, kwanzaa displays featuring fruits and candle holders with red, black and green candles, and displays paying tribute to other religions and holidays that, when asked, Emma had to admit to Henry she didn’t recognize.

Others were just… weird. One window was done up in black, white, and gold, with a sort of art deco theme. A single mannequin stood in the middle, surrounded by horses and what were probably supposed to be black and white peppermint candies, but really just reminded Emma of catherine wheel fireworks. Another looked like someone raided David Bowie’s 1970s wardrobe, took a long, critical look, and said, “You know what? This is too sedate. Where can we find something that really stands out?” The mannequins on the rotating platform were dressed as an angel with peacock feathers, a spaceman in a lace duster, a man clad neck to toe in black leather with lobster claw mittens, and other such outfits. As if that weren’t garish enough, the whole thing was lit up in neon.

Henry snapped a picture of each and every window, even the weird ones. _Especially_ the weird ones. “So I can show my class once school starts back up,” he’d explained when Emma asked. Eventually, he started shivering so badly that he couldn’t hold his phone steady, so she bundled him up and brought him back to the penthouse, where they warmed up in front of Belle’s fake fireplace, shared a frozen pizza, and watched movies for the rest of the night.

Just like the previous night, Henry had sat on the opposite end of the couch from Emma. And while she managed to coax smiles and laughter from him all day, they lacked the warmth they’d had before summer. And every time she left his line of sight, he looked around anxiously, as though afraid she wouldn’t be there when he turned around. 

She’d messed up bad with Henry. She knew that. She’d let herself be a girlfriend first, when she should have been a mom before all else. No matter how much Killian had coaxed and convinced her that ten years old was old enough for Henry to look after himself, Emma was the one who had listened. She was the one who had chosen to put her boyfriend on a pedestal to the point where she lied to her friends, put her job at risk, and neglected her son, all to keep Killian happy. She had a lot to make up for, but the next two weeks would be a good start.

The intercom near the door buzzed, yanking Emma back to the present. Unwilling to relinquish her death grip on her coffee, she shuffled to the panel and hit the button. “Yeah?”

_“Hey, Em. It’s, uh, it’s Neal.”_

Jesus. This was not what she needed right now. Or ever. “What do you want?”

_“Look, we need to talk. Can I come in?”_

That was exactly the last thing Emma wanted. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to hear his voice, or see how well he was doing, or even know he existed outside of the son he’d unknowingly given her. “No.”

A ragged sigh. Then, _“I’ve been thinking about… you know, about your kid. I wanna talk about him, and I don’t wanna do it over an intercom. I get the feeling you don’t, either. So can I come in or not?”_

Shit. He knew. Or if he didn’t know, he had a solid guess. And he was right; she sure as hell didn’t want to have this conversation where Henry could hear. “Fine, we can talk. But not here,” she snarled. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

He was silent for several moments. _“You sure you’re not just gonna bail on me?”_ he asked.

Bastard. Of the two of them, she wasn’t the one with a history of bailing. She took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time to pick a fight. “You’ve got me over a barrel here, Neal. I can’t exactly escape this conversation, so I’d rather get it over with.”

_“Fine. Ten minutes. I’ll be waiting.”_

Great. Just perfect. She checked the clock. It was 7:45, which meant that Henry could be awake in fifteen minutes, or he could sleep another hour, depending on how tired he was. Hastily, she scribbled a note, sneaking into Henry’s room and leaving it on top of his phone so he wouldn’t miss it.

_Hey sleepyhead,_

_I figured today we could make our annual batch of Christmas cookies. We might not have anyone to share them with, but I bet between the two of us we can demolish them. I’ve just gone to the store to pick up ingredients. Be back soon. Cereal’s on the table._

_Love you!_

_Mom_

Another lie, when she’d promised no more. Sure, technically it’d be the truth once she finished talking to Neal. She’d run to the grocery store down the street and grab everything she needed. But it was still a lie of omission, and at that moment, she resented Neal for making it necessary.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, she quickly combed her hair and washed her face. She didn’t bother with makeup. This wasn’t a social call, and she wasn’t out to impress anybody. This was just a dreaded conversation with the father of her child. Nothing more. If her hands trembled while she laced up her sneakers and shrugged into her red leather jacket, it was just caffeine jitters from the coffee.

The elevator ride down to the lobby was excruciatingly slow, and yet as the doors slid open and her ex boyfriend came into view, she couldn’t help lamenting that it was over too soon. He looked just the same as he had the other day: tanned skin, warm brown eyes, goofy little goatee, black hair fluffed up in a cowlick that was probably supposed to look more effortless than it actually was. There was just one difference.

“What are you wearing?” she asked.

He looked down at himself - or more accurately, at the off-the-rack black suit he wore. Ten years ago, Emma wouldn’t have known the difference between a tailored suit and a ready-made, unaltered one. Having a snarky peacock of a man for a landlord had taught her how to spot the difference.

“What? Oh, I’ve got a meeting with some investors today. Gotta at least pretend to look presentable.” He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his head. “You wanna grab a coffee? There’s a place down the street that makes a decent cup. We can get a table with a little privacy, instead of just having it out here.”

Emma shrugged. “Fine. Whatever you want.”

With an annoyed look, he led the way to a nearby coffee shop. Emma ordered a coffee and a muffin, more to give herself something to do with her hands than out of any actual hunger. Neal got a coffee. Once their order was ready, they selected a corner table at the far back.

“So,” Neal said.

“So,” Emma echoed, unwilling to give an inch more than she had to.

His brow furrowed in the way it always did when he was confused or frustrated. She’d found it endearing, once. “I’ll get right to the point. Is he mine?” he asked.

She didn’t bother playing dumb. The sooner they could end this conversation, the sooner she could get the hell out of here. “No, he’s not,” she said, cursing herself for how weak and unconvincing her voice sounded.

He rolled his eyes. “You know, for someone who claims to have a lie detector superpower, you can’t lie to save your life.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Emma picked a chunk off of her muffin, crumbling it between her fingers. “Henry was born on August fifteenth, ten years ago.”

She watched him do the math, counting the months on his fingers. “So that means you were… two months along when we broke up?”

She nodded.

“And you’re sure he’s mine?” he asked.

Fury, white-hot and seething, lanced through her heart. “You asshole!” she hissed through clenched teeth. 

He reared back as if struck. “What? I’m just making sure you’re not trying to trick me!”

“In case you didn’t notice, jackass, you’re the one who came to me,” Emma snapped, ignoring the curious glances she was getting from the baristas. “If I wanted to trick you or whatever, I would’ve come after you for child support years ago. _I didn’t._ It’s kind of hard for me to pin you with another man’s kid when I’ve never even told you about him. So you accusing me of cheating on you is really damn uncalled for.”

He held his hands up placatingly. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. You’re right. I just… This is a lot to take in, is all.”

There was a hell of a lot more she wanted to say to him - about how he’d left her high and dry, about how she’d struggled all these years, about how she didn’t miss him and his dorky jokes and his stupid, goofy smile - but that wasn’t why she was here. She was here for Henry. That was all.

“So what now?” she asked instead. Another chunk of muffin was reduced to moist crumbs between her fingertips.

“I dunno. This is all kind of a lot to take in,” Neal said again. He took a gulp of his coffee. “I mean… a few days ago, I was just a guy trying to get a small company off the ground. Now I’m a dad. I never even gave much thought to having kids.”

“Yeah.” In a way, Emma could sympathize. Finding out you had a kid could be a humbling experience. Still, she didn’t exactly pity the guy. He was in a _far_ better position than he’d left her in when she had Henry.

“So tell me about him. What’s his name? What’s he like?”

Some of the tension left her shoulders. “His name’s Henry.” Smiling fondly, she let her thoughts stray to her son. “He’s smart as a whip. Not just in school. I mean, he gets good grades, and all, but it’s more than that. He’s _perceptive._ He asks questions, and he notices things other people don’t. You can’t slip a thing past him.”

“Sounds a lot like you,” Neal said.

She shrugged. “Even I get the wool pulled over my eyes sometimes.” She glanced significantly at Neal. He opened his mouth to say something, but she spoke up before he could. “He’s such a good kid. Always listens to his teachers, and only talks back to me if I really deserve it. I dunno how he turned out as good as he did.”

Neal gave a low whistle. “He’s that good, huh? You sure he didn’t get switched at birth?”

“What, you mean with you and me as parents? Yeah,” Emma chuckled. 

Leaning forward on his forearms, his earnest brown eyes met hers. “So he’s smart, and he’s well-behaved. What’s he into? What are his hobbies?”

“Games,” she said instantly. “Board games, card games, video games. He likes things with rules and structure.”

Neal snorted. “Now I _know_ he was switched at birth. That doesn’t sound like us at all.”

“You’d be surprised,” Emma muttered into her coffee. “Any time we play a board game, he’ll read through the rules five times before we can even start, and he’ll hold me to every last one of ‘em. Then just when I think I’m winning, he’ll find some teeny, tiny little exploit that tips the whole damn thing in his favor. The kid cheats without actually cheating.”

“Huh.” Neal drummed his fingers on the table, looking thoughtful. 

Emma took a moment to look him over. Even after elevenish years, he hadn’t lost any of his boyish good looks. He didn’t have Killian’s bad boy image, with his leather jackets and eyeliner; even in their past as teenaged delinquents, Neal had never exactly exuded an aura of danger. But she could still see the boy that idiot teen Emma had fallen in love with. Cute, she decided. He was _cute,_ even in that ridiculous, ill-fitting suit. He had an easy, contagious laugh, and a smile that made his eyes crinkle in that way that used to make her melt. 

But that was a long time ago, before he’d screwed her over. 

“I want to meet him,” he said suddenly.

Her heart sank. She’d had a feeling this was coming. There was no reason for Neal to do this - to buy her a coffee, make nice, and ask questions about their kid - unless he wanted to meet Henry. With a start, she realized that her entire muffin was reduced to a mess of crumbs on her plate. Itching for something to do, her fingers started shredding the paper liner.

“What, right now?”

He glanced at his watch. “Well, not _now_ now. I’ve got that meeting in under an hour. But I was thinking maybe tonight.”

Emma shook her head vigorously, feeling sick to her stomach. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t eaten any of the muffin in front of her. “That’s not gonna happen,” she replied.

“What the hell, Emma! Why not?”

“Because I’ve gotta break it to my kid that his dad isn’t dead,” she said, taking a small amount of vicious pleasure in the way he recoiled.

“Jesus Christ! You told him I was _dead?_ ” he demanded.

“No, because as far as Henry’s been concerned, you don’t exist. I told him his dad was a firefighter who died saving a family from a burning building.” Leaning back in her chair, she sullenly drained the dregs of her coffee, swallowing with a grimace. 

“That’s nice, Em. Real nice,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

Leaning forward, Emma jabbed one finger angrily toward his chest. “Let’s get one thing straight, Neal: you don’t get to call out my parenting choices. You’re the one who left me with nothing, nobody, and no way to get in touch with you. I’m the one who’s been raising Henry for the past decade.” Throat thickening with emotion, she angrily blinked back tears. She was _not_ going to cry in front of him. “You’re not the one who had to figure out something to say to a crying six year old who didn’t understand why he was the only kid in his class without a daddy. I had to come up with a story quick, something that would make him feel better. And that’s exactly what I did.”

Neal’s mouth opened a few times to say something, but snapped shut each time. His gaze fell to the table. “I guess it’s a nicer story than the truth,” he grudgingly admitted. 

She rubbed a hand tiredly over her face. “Look. Meeting him today is off the table. I’ve got to tell him… I dunno, some cleaned up version of the truth, and explain why I’ve been lying to him for the past four years. He’s going to be upset.” “Upset” was probably an understatement. After everything that had gone down since summer, Henry was going to view this as just one more betrayal. The timing couldn’t be worse. “After that… I can’t make any promises. If he wants to meet you, we’ll meet up. If not… that’s his call. Fair?”

“Fair,” he agreed. He dug through his jacket’s inner pocket, producing a business card and holding it out. Emma accepted it gingerly. “Here. My cell and email are on that. Give me a call when you figure out what’s happening.”

“Yeah.” She tucked it into her pocket without looking at it. “Look, I’ve got to go. Henry’s going to be awake any minute, if he isn’t already. I’ve gotta run to the store and get back.”

Neal nodded, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. “I’ve got that meeting to get to, anyway. But, uh…” He scratched awkwardly at the back of his head. “I know things are kind of a mess, but… it was good seeing you.”

God, hearing that from him hurt, because she knew that he was telling the truth. Even after everything. “Yeah. You too,” she said with a sad smile. Maybe she was immune to her own superpower. She honestly couldn’t tell whether she was lying or not.

******

Hours later, Emma was washing the last of the dishes from their baking spree while Henry wiped the counters. The kitchen island was cluttered with plates of cookies covered in plastic wrap. Red and green M&M cookies, raspberry thumbprints, oatmeal raisin, peanut butter blossoms, chocolate crinkles, magic bars, snickerdoodles, and Oreo balls. Normally they’d add sugar cookies and gingerbread men to the mix, but Emma couldn’t find a rolling pin or cookie cutters in Belle’s sprawling kitchen. Still, they had more than enough cookies to last them the holiday season.

As always when they baked cookies together, they listened to the Christmas compilation albums Emma had bought for Henry’s first holiday, ten years ago. She’d just moved to Storybrooke a month before, and was making ends meet working at Granny’s diner while she raised an infant alone and slowly studied toward getting her G.E.D. The hotel proprietress had taken pity on the young mother, giving her free room and board while Emma got her feet under her. Heartbroken, burnt out, and broke, she hadn’t felt much up to celebrating anything. Even if she had, she had no experience with it; the orphanage where she’d grown up never celebrated birthdays or holidays.

But the holiday spirit of the small, welcoming community could reach all but the coldest, most remote of hearts, and Emma wasn’t that yet. Determined to make Henry’s first Christmas a good one, even if he wouldn’t remember it, she’d bought the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Seeing the Christmas CDs in the bargain bin near the registers, she’d bought a couple on a whim. Christmas day had been spent baking burnt cookies, dancing around the kitchen to the soundtrack of Henry’s delighted laughter. From then on, the tradition had stuck, and Emma and Henry would spend a day in late December dancing around the kitchen to the same awful music, belting out their favorites.

Emma had really gone all out on the cookies this year. Usually they only made three or four varieties of cookies - enough for themselves, with enough to share with close friends. Once Henry started school and Emma was free to seek full-time employment at the sheriff’s department, she’d set aside a plate for Henry’s class, and a small sampling to share with Graham. 

This year, they’d made eight kinds of cookies, and Emma knew exactly why: she was being a coward. As long as they were baking, she didn’t have to broach this difficult topic. Now she was dithering over rinsing the last of the soap suds down the drain. Night had fallen hours ago, and Emma was considering what to make for dinner.

“Mom?”

Reluctantly, Emma shut off the faucet and turned to face her son. Henry had a nervous, uncertain look on his face, and a smear of flour on his cheek. A checkered dishtowel was twisted between his hands.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

His eyes glanced up and down, unable to settle on her eyes or her fuzzy socks. Finally, they stayed on her socks. “You’ve been really nervous all day,” he mumbled, giving the dishtowel another twist. “You weren’t dancing, and you didn’t try to sing that high note all opera-style like you always do. Usually when you’re nervous like this, you’re about to give me bad news.”

Emma sighed. The kid was too damn perceptive by half. How was she supposed to put off unpleasant conversations when he picked up on her moods?

“I’ve got news, yeah,” she admitted. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but it’s big.” Rather than reassuring Henry, that only seemed to make him more anxious. “Come on. Let’s go sit down.” With a hand on his shoulder, she guided him to the living room. She let him hold onto the dishtowel; like her, Henry needed something to fidget with when he was upset. She settled onto the couch, disappointed but not surprised when Henry chose to perch on the edge of the armchair. She took a deep breath, held it, released it. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve got the bad news, and I’ve got the big news. Which do you want first?”

“Bad news.”

Emma nodded. Of course. Henry always wanted the bad news first. He liked having the good news to look forward to. Emma just hoped that his dad being alive was good news. “Okay, here goes: I lied to you about your dad.”

Henry frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Emma leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I mean… your dad wasn’t a firefighter. I wasn’t a waitress at some diner that didn’t sell pumpkin pie, and he didn’t die saving people from a burning apartment building.” Unable to look at her son as her betrayal was revealed, she kept her eyes glued to her hands, which were clasped between her knees.

“So… who were you? How did you meet?”

Here it was: the part that might destroy Henry’s good opinion of her. Emma wanted so badly to hold back. She could make up a new story, something that balanced bits of the truth with parts of the sanitized story she’d given him years ago. 

But dammit, he deserved the truth. She owed him that much.

She heaved a sigh. “Okay. The truth.” Closing her eyes, she let herself drift back to her teen years. It was something she avoided thinking about most days. “Your dad and I were both runaways.”

“What were you running from?”

“I wanted to get away from the orphanage,” she admitted. “Growing up in that place was miserable, so as soon as I could, I got the hell out of there. As for your dad, I guess _his_ dad was a real jerk. Real overbearing, controlling type. I don’t know - he didn’t talk about him much.” And now came the moment she’d been dreading. “I met your dad when I was stealing a car. I didn’t know he’d already stolen it.” With a wince, she waited for Henry’s reaction.

She didn’t have to wait long. “You stole a _car?!_ ” he exploded. “You… you both stole a car? That’s _illegal!_ ”

“Henry--”

“No! You’ve been lying to me about this for years! You let me think that you and my dad were the good guys. A firefighter and a police officer. And now you’re telling me that it was all a lie? You were the bad guys all along?”

“Henry…” Emma finally forced herself to look at her son. He wasn’t crying, which was good, and he didn’t look as angry as he sounded. He looked frightened and defeated, like something important had just been taken from him. And it had. Emma wanted desperately to give it back to him, but she couldn’t. “Look, kid, there’s more to life than good guys and bad guys,” she said. “Sometimes good people do bad things. Sometimes bad people do good things.”

“So…” Henry swallowed and frowned. “So which are you?”

“Me?” Emma laughed sadly. “I’m just a regular person doing the best with what I’ve got. I try to do good; that’s why I became a cop. But sometimes I mess up and do bad. That’s just life.”

“Oh.” Squirming in his seat, Henry gave the dishtowel another hard twist. “I don’t really want to talk about this anymore.” Anxious brown eyes met sad green. “What was the other news?”

Emma reached a hand out to Henry, hoping to take one of his hands in hers. Her heart nearly broke when he recoiled from her, leaning back to curl up in the plush, overstuffed armchair.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “The other news, the big news is… your dad is alive. Here. In New York.” She swallowed. “And he wants to meet you.”

His eyes flickered around the room in the way they always did when he was processing information. His face lit up as he came to his answer. “That guy who came here the other night. That was him,” he declared confidently. Before she could confirm what he’d already figured out, his face fell. “So wait. That means you’re only telling me this because he wants to meet me? Because you had to?”

“I…” Emma paused. She wanted to reassure Henry that she would’ve told him the truth eventually. But could she really, honestly make that claim? It had been nice, letting Henry believe that his dad was a hero who inspired her to become a police officer. He’d taken his parents’ “heroics” to heart, wanting to be a hero himself. Everything from saving baby birds to standing up to bullies in the schoolyard - Henry aspired to be the best person he could by following the imaginary example Emma had set. And in an odd way, being Henry’s inspiration had inspired her to be better, herself. Selfishly, she’d never wanted to tell him the truth, because that meant she wouldn’t be Henry’s hero anymore.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, rubbing her face tiredly. “I want to tell you that I would’ve told you the whole story eventually. Maybe in a few years. But I really don’t know, kiddo.”

The silence stretched awkwardly between them, broken only by the crackling of the electric fireplace. Emma twiddled her thumbs in her lap, while Henry shook the wrinkles out of the checkered dishtowel. Eventually he stood up and left the room, mumbling something about needing time to think. He padded quietly to his bedroom, closing it behind him with a soft _click_. Moments later, Emma heard the sound of his handheld video game turning on.

She let out the breath she’d been holding in a whoosh. Well, that had gone… badly. Emma wanted nothing more than to knock on Henry’s door and let him know that she was here if he needed to talk, or cry, or scream at her, or… anything. But he wanted space to think, and she’d give it to him. She owed him that much.

Emma spent the rest of the night sitting quietly in the living room, watching a movie on low volume. In the unlikely event that Henry decided to speak to her tonight, she wanted to make damn sure she heard him. About halfway through the movie, she paused it and made a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. Slipping some M&M cookies on one plate, she brought it to Henry’s door, knocking gently.

“Hey Henry,” she said quietly. He didn’t respond, but the music from his video game paused. Not a great sign, but it could be worse. “I’ve got dinner for you. I’m leaving it outside your door. When you’re done, just leave it outside the door, okay?” She waited ten seconds for an answer. None came. 

Reluctantly, she went back to the living room to finish her movie, picking at her sandwich without much appetite. When the credits rolled, she checked in on Henry. The plate on the floor was completely empty, licked clean of every last crumb. She collected it without bothering him.

Settling back on the couch in the silent living room, she buried her face in her hands. God, what a mess. This trip was supposed to bring her and Henry closer together, not drive an even wider wedge between them. It was utterly ridiculous. The astronomical odds of her ex being friends with her sort-of benefactor, the horrible timing of running into him just when her relationship with her son was at its shakiest… Things couldn’t possibly go worse if she’d planned it. 

Knowing Henry, he wasn’t going to leave his room for the rest of the night. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t demand that they cut the trip short and go home. If the stars aligned, maybe he’d talk to her tomorrow. If not… Well, Storybrooke had a therapist. Maybe Archie would be able to help her fix what she’d broken.

She had no idea how long she sat there, mired in her miserable thoughts, when a hand came out and gripped her shoulder. Emma started with a gasp, her eyes darting to Henry’s surprised face. “God, kiddo, you startled me,” she breathed. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He crammed his hands in his pockets, looking somewhere over her left shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

“Listen, Henry, I just want to say I’m so--”

“No, wait.” At Henry’s words, Emma’s mouth snapped shut. “I… I hate that you lied to me for all this time. I think…” With a frustrated expression, he shook his head. “I don’t even know what I think. This is worse than all the lies you told when you were with Killian, combined.”

Swallowing against the thick, painful lump in her throat, Emma nodded. “I know,” she whispered.

“I don’t understand why you kept lying to me when you were with Killian,” he continued, his voice shaking with emotion. “But… I guess I get why you lied about my dad. Sort of.”

Before she could come up with any reply, Henry’s arms were around her neck in a tight hug. Hardly able to believe it, she wrapped her own arms around him. He buried his face in her shoulder, the shaking of his own shoulders betraying his silent sobs. Emma managed to hold onto her composure by her fingernails, only letting a single tear drop from either eye.

“I promise, kid,” she whispered. “I’m gonna do better. Whatever it takes.”

Drawing in a shuddering, hiccupping break, Henry pulled back, swiping the tears off his face with the back of his hand. “I don’t wanna see any more of New York tomorrow,” he said. Emma’s heart sank. If he wanted to go home, they would. She’d figure out what to do about Belle. But if he wanted to go home, then home they’d go. “Could we just… stay in and watch movies? Maybe play a game or two?”

Relief flooded Emma’s chest. So he wasn’t giving up on this trip, after all. He wasn’t pulling back from her. If anything, he was giving her another shot to make things right. If Henry could handle all the curveballs she’d thrown him tonight, then she could take anything New York could dish out. “You got it, kiddo. We’ll stay in, order delivery, and eat cookies ‘til we’re sick.” Letting go of him, she stood up. “Now come on. We’ve both had a heck of a day. I think we could both use a full night’s sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I am just incapable of writing pure fluff. It just wouldn't be my writing if I didn't throw some angst in the mix. But hey - I ended the chapter on a hopeful note! That wasn't originally my plan. So I get bonus points for trying.


	5. Two Hearts a-Thrilling In Spite Of The Chilling Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean... the rating went to M. Y'all know what happens this chapter.

_ December 19th _

Belle gave her fingers an experimental sniff, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of garlic and shallots that clung to them. That wouldn’t do. Thinking quickly, she made a paste of baking soda and water and scrubbed her hands with it, careful to get under her nails as best as she could. She washed the paste off with soap and smelled again. The only scent that reached her nostrils was the honey fragrance from the liquid hand soap. Pleased, she surveyed the kitchen one last time to make sure that everything was in place. A pair of steaks rested in butcher’s paper on the counter, ready for searing. The spinach was stemmed, the garlic slivered, and the shallots finely minced. The two bottles of red wine she’d purchased earlier today were exactly where she wanted them; the cheap cabernet sauvignon next to the stove would be added to the shallot sauce that would top the steaks, and the nicer merlot on the kitchen table would be a perfect accompaniment to the meal. In the oven, diced potatoes roasted with rosemary and olive oil in a glass baking dish.

All in all, it was more effort than she’d put into a meal in over a year. Cooking for herself didn’t really seem worth the time it took away from writing, and Greg hadn’t appreciated her culinary endeavors. Flavor, texture, preparation - none of that mattered to him. In his words, “as long as I hit my macros, you could serve me dog puke and I’d still eat it.”

Charming.

She could only hope that Mr. Gold would be more appreciative of the time and skill that went into cooking a nice meal. He certainly seemed to value the finer things in life. She wouldn’t be earning any Michelin stars any time soon, but a meal like this was more suitable to a refined palate than the homestyle, comforting food of Granny’s, no matter how delicious the latter was.

Now she just needed to get the man over here for dinner. She had a plan for that, as well. Slipping from the kitchen, she hurried to the half-bathroom just around the corner. She eyed the sink speculatively. Years of researching every topic that struck her fancy had given her a variety of skills that left her fairly self-sufficient. She had rudimentary knowledge in car maintenance, tailoring, cooking, bushcraft, and most importantly for her current purposes, plumbing. Manufacturing a simple, easily fixed issue that the landlord simply  _ had _ to take a look at right this instant would only take a minute or two.

She nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. Really, there was no need to be that thorough. This whole ploy - asking him to come to her place, alone, in the evening to check on something that couldn’t wait - was transparent at best. He’d obviously see through it in a heartbeat. Besides, he would probably show up in one of those lovely suits he favored. If he was polite enough to go along with her charade, he might wind up staining or ruining his clothes.

A compromise, then. She turned the cold water knob just a tiny bit clockwise, until water slowly trickled from the faucet.  _ Voila _ \- instant plumbing issue. Whipping out her cell phone, she called the phone number she’d added to her contacts two days ago.

The phone only rang once.  _ “This is Gold.” _

“Mr. Gold?” Belle winced. Of course it was Mr. Gold; he’d just said so. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m--”

_ “Miss French. Yes, I remember.” _ Was it her imagination, or did he sound happy to hear from her? God, she hoped so, or this was going to be a very embarrassing phone call. He cleared his throat, and his voice took on a more sober tone.  _ “How can I help you?” _

Here it was: the moment that would determine if Mr. Gold was as interested in her as she was in him, or if it was all in her head. “I’ve got a leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom,” she said. “I was wondering if you could come take a look.”

_ “Ah.” _ A pause. Then,  _ “I’m afraid the man who handles the maintenance on my properties has gone home for the night. I can have him there first thing in the morning to take care of it.” _

Belle quailed internally. Had she misread the signs? Maybe she wasn’t being clear. She’d try one more time, and accept whatever answer came. “I was actually hoping you could take a look for yourself, if you’re free,” she said, letting a bit of hope color her tone.

For a long time, the other end of the line was silent.  _ “You… you want me to come over,” _ he repeated.

Belle nodded, even though Mr. Gold couldn’t see it. “Please.”

_ “Now?” _

“Only if you’re free,” Belle added quickly. “If you’re busy, or have other plans, don’t put yourself out for me.”

_ “No, I don’t have - I mean, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all.” _

Belle released the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. “Great! When can I expect you?”

_ “I can be there in… twenty minutes.” _

“Perfect! I’ll see you then.”

_ “I’m looking forward to it.” _

They ended the call. Trying and failing to suppress a pleased giggle, Belle hurried upstairs to the bedroom. Throwing open the closet door, she quickly went through all of the dresses she’d hung up. Most of the dresses she’d brought were relatively casual, but she’d brought a few dressier numbers. At the time, she’d thought she was being silly; she really hadn’t planned on leaving the cottage at all, except for necessities. Now she was utterly thankful for her neurotic tendency to overpack for every last eventuality.

Belle spread her three best dresses on the bed, eyeing them critically. The dress she chose really depended on what sort of impression she wanted to make on Mr. Gold. Did she want to come across as fun and flirty? Elegant and refined? Sultry and alluring? Which side of her would Mr. Gold most like to see?

Reluctantly, she put away her sexiest dress. She was already being painfully obvious, inviting him over at night with a flimsy excuse to check her plumbing. Wearing the slinky, off-the-shoulder sheath dress might give Mr. Gold the wrong idea: that she was expecting to sleep with him, regardless of how their date went. Yes, she was attracted to him. Yes, she was  _ very _ interested to see exactly what he was hiding underneath those three piece suits of his. But she’d learned her lesson from dating Greg for four years: physical attraction wasn’t enough for her. If they weren’t compatible on an intellectual and emotional level, then she wasn’t interested in anything physical.

Likewise, she tucked the dress with the flirty, ruffled skirt back in the closet. It was a cute dress, and it made her legs look amazing, especially when she wore a pair of heels. But it also made her painfully aware of the age difference between her and Mr. Gold. She’d never dated outside her age bracket before. Would a dress like this just make her seem young and silly? After managing to make a fool of herself in front of him, she really wanted to illustrate to him that she was more than just a frivolous girl who went gaga over hamburgers.

That left the last option: a tea-length, A-line dress with a navy blue chiffon skirt. The bodice was of white satin, with short cap sleeves and a wide v-neck that showed only the first shadowed hints of cleavage. A navy floral lace applique adorned the waist where white met blue. Compared to the other two, this dress was rather sedate, elegant in its simplicity. It wasn’t overtly sexy in the way the other two were, but it was polished and tasteful. Just right for a first date.

And just to be safe, she wore a matching lace bra and panty set in dove gray. It never hurt to be prepared, after all.

She’d just finished applying her makeup and slipping on a pair of pumps when someone hammered on the front door with their fist. She checked the clock. Mr. Gold was five minutes early, which wasn’t a problem. But the way he rudely pounded on the door was. It sounded like he was trying to knock the door down.

Honestly, he’d been less forceful when he was here for the rent. Pressing her lips in a firm line to keep from scowling, Belle yanked the door open. “Really, there’s no need to… oh.” 

There was indeed a man at her door, but it wasn’t Mr. Gold. He was roughly her age, with sideswept hair so dark it was nearly black. His blue eyes were accentuated with black eyeliner, his cheeks and jaw rough with dark stubble. His black leather jacket was incomprehensibly left open in the frigid night air, the button-down shirt unbuttoned far down enough to show hints of black chest hair. Who in their right mind would walk around like that when the temperature was in the single digits?

“Um… can I help you?” she asked warily, remembering the violent way he’d knocked. She was suddenly very aware of how isolated and alone she was, with only the snowy pines around her.

The man, whoever he was, looked her up and down bemusedly. “Oh, I don’t think so, love,” he said. “I’m looking for Emma. She’s not answering my calls, so I thought I’d drop by, make sure she’s alright.”

Understanding dawned on Belle in that moment. This must be Mr. “Bad Breakup” Emma had mentioned in their original chat on the home swapping site. Possibly also the reason Ruby had asked her to keep Emma’s whereabouts secret. She’d have to proceed with caution here.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing sweetness. “Emma’s not here. She and her son went away on holiday.”

The man scowled slightly, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “I see. And do you know where she went?”

“She didn’t tell me.” Which was true. Emma hadn’t told Belle where she was going; technically, Belle had been the one to tell Emma where she’d be staying. “Anyway, I’m afraid she won’t be home for several more days.”

The scowl disappeared from his face, and was quickly replaced by a charming, lopsided smile. It was a smile that probably won people over to his way of thinking more often than not. Greg used to have one just like it, and it had worked on Belle for far longer than she cared to admit. At least one good thing had come out of that relationship; she seemed to be immune to this man’s charms.

The man in question leaned a forearm against the doorway, looming over her. “And, uh, are you here alone, Miss?”

Alarm bells went off in her head.  _ That _ certainly wasn’t a question she felt comfortable answering. Backing away slightly, she put the door between them. She raised her chin slightly. “I don’t see how that’s your business,” she said.

“Ah, that’s a yes.” He leaned in further, one booted foot sliding over the threshold. Belle cursed her indecision. In trying to be polite, she’d missed her opportunity to shut this man out of the cottage. His predatory eyes stared over her shoulder into the living room. “Now, why don’t you tell me--”

“Is there a problem, Miss French?”

The sound of Mr. Gold’s voice made Belle’s knees nearly buckle in relief. This man, whoever he was, backed away from the door reluctantly. Looking past him, Belle saw Mr. Gold standing in front of his black Cadillac, wool coat buttoned up high against the biting cold. His hair stirred lightly in the breeze.

“No,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “He was just leaving.”

The man glanced back at her, his jaw jutting out in a stubborn line. For a long, tense moment, Belle was afraid he wasn’t going to leave. With an unsettling smirk, he turned and walked toward his car. Mr. Gold remained perfectly still as the man passed, the leather of his right glove creaking slightly as his grip tightened on his cane. Though his head never turned, his eyes followed the taller man until he climbed into his car and started the ignition. Soon the man was driving away.

Belle shuddered, her body finally registering the freezing cold. In her apprehension of the strange man looming over her, she hadn’t even felt it. Her upper arms were reddened from the harsh winter wind.

If she was cold, then Mr. Gold had to be half-frozen. “Mr. Gold,” she called, “come in. Get yourself out of the cold.” She held the door wide open for him, heedless of the cold air rushing in.

He limped forward, ducking gratefully through the door. Belle shut and locked it behind them. She turned to face him, and before she could react his hands were on her upper arms, chafing them to return warmth to her reddened skin. His cane hung precariously from his right forearm.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” he demanded. Something burned hot and dangerous in the darkness of his eyes. Sh shivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold.

She nodded quickly, eager to reassure him. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I think he was just looking for Emma.” More than just warming her arms, his touch brought heat to her cheeks. They stood like that for a few more seconds before Mr. Gold pulled back, resting his weight back on his cane with a pained grimace. “Who is he?”

“Killian Jones. He’s a small-time thug who has connections at the sheriff’s office that let him get away with more than he should,” he replied. “Evidence against him has an uncanny habit of going missing at convenient times.”

“Oh.” She glanced uncertainly back at the door. “Should I be worried? He’s not going to come after me, is he?”

“No.” Despite the certainty in his tone, Mr. Gold didn’t look so sure. He shook himself, taking a step back from her. “But you didn’t call me here to talk about Mr. Jones. You said something about a leaking faucet?”

Belle chuckled. “Right this way,” she said, quickly showing him to the bathroom. He frowned at the water steadily dripping into the sink. “I’ll just leave you to it.” He nodded absently as she left the room.

It was sweet of him to pretend that her excuse to get him over here wasn’t painfully obvious. And while he pretended to check on the “issue,” she could finish up her preparations: throw another log on the fire, light the candles on the kitchen table, and open up the merlot so it had a chance to breathe while she quickly finished up dinner. She was just about to set the steaks searing on a skillet when Mr. Gold’s voice floated to her from the living room.

“I believe the issue is… Miss French?”

“In the kitchen,” she called over her shoulder, glancing around the kitchen one last time. Apart from the light of the stovetop, the only illumination came from the two taper candles set in glass holders. The warm, flickering glow left the rest of the room in shadow, creating what Belle hoped would be a quiet, intimate scene for the two of them. 

The  _ step, thump-step _ of his approach neared the kitchen threshold. “The faucet shouldn’t trouble you anymore,” he said as he stepped into the kitchen. “It was just… oh.” His eyes darted around the room, taking in the atmosphere she’d set: the wine, the candles, the table for two. He swallowed and licked his lips. “You’re expecting company,” he said unnecessarily.

She giggled at the flummoxed look on his face. “You could say that,” she teased. “I decided I wanted to have dinner with the handsomest man in Storybrooke. Lucky for me, he was  _ very _ obliging, and came as soon as I called.”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, glancing over his shoulder. When he turned back to her, his brow was furrowed in confusion. “But I thought…” His features schooled themselves to careful blankness, just as they had every time he distanced himself from her. “Forgive me, Miss French; I didn’t realize I was interrupting a date. I’m sure if you call Mr. Jones, he’ll be all too eager to come back once I’m gone.”

“What?” Belle blinked, finally noticing that Mr. Gold was still wearing his thick wool coat and leather gloves. Did… did he really think she’d called him over here, in frigid weather, to look at a drippy faucet? And did he truly believe that she’d rather have an aggressive man like that over for dinner instead of him - a man who had been nothing but a gentleman to her? “No, Killian Jones is  _ not _ who I invited over for dinner,” she said.

“Then who…?”

God, he really didn’t get it, did he? “You, Mr. Gold. I called you over to have dinner with me.” An unsettling thought occurred to her. She’d assumed that he came over because he’d seen right through her flimsy excuse to get him over here. But what if he really had come over only as a concerned landlord? Had she misread everything? 

Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment. When she’d called him, it hadn’t even occurred to her that he wouldn’t pick up on the signal she was sending. If he was interested, he’d accept her invitation. If not, he’d decline. The idea that he’d come over and see all the effort she’d put into their date, without returning her feelings, had never crossed her mind.

“You can go, if you want,” she said quietly. “I thought… after what happened in your shop… it’d be nice to get to know each other alone, without interruptions. But if you’re not interested--”

“No!” he said with flattering urgency. “No, that’s not it. I..” He licked his lips, his eyes flickering over the kitchen again, before coming back to rest on her. He looked her up and down, as though noticing her dress for the first time. “I didn’t realize you were asking me here for dinner. I’d have brought a bottle of wine if I knew.”

“Way ahead of you.” She gestured to the bottle of merlot where it breathed on the table. She chewed nervously on her lower lip. They’d cleared up their little misunderstanding, but he hadn’t actually said he wanted to stay. And since her not-so-subtle subtle approach had nearly backfired, the only thing to do was ask him flat out. Screwing her courage to some manner of sticking place, she asked, “Mr. Gold, won’t you join me for dinner?”

His eyes warmed, his lips curving in a shy smile. “I’d be delighted,” he murmured. 

“Great! Why don’t you take off your coat and get comfortable? Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.” As he left the room to do just that, Belle let out a shaky breath. She set the steaks on the heated skillet. The loud sizzling drowned out all sound from the living room. “Okay, Belle,” she whispered to herself. “Here’s your chance. You’ve been on dates before. This one’s no different.” She heard the thump of his cane on the hardwood floor and her jaw snapped shut. Dumping the spinach and garlic in the other skillet, she gave the mix a quick toss as he came into the room. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see him surreptitiously shift onto his good leg, flexing his bad ankle with a grimace. “Sit down; make yourself at home,” she offered, waving one hand toward the table.

Mr. Gold sank into the chair across from her with a grateful sigh. He reached for the bottle of wine, taking a long look at the label before nodding in approval. Reaching across the table, he took her glass and poured her a moderate amount before doing the same for himself. “So,” he began, “you know what I do for a living. What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” she replied, flipping the steaks and giving the spinach a quick stir. “I’ve had a few successful releases, and I’m working on the next.”

“Is that what brought you to Storybrooke?”

She nodded. “I was starting to feel smothered at home,” she admitted. “I couldn’t get any writing done. I’d just stare at a blank document for hours on end and get nothing done.”

Mr. Gold glanced around the small confines of the cottage. “And this place is less stifling than your apartment in New York?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

The oven timer beeped, indicating that the potatoes were done. She pulled the hot dish out of the oven and set it on a pair of cast iron trivets on the counter. “Yes and no,” she admitted, removing the steaks to a wooden cutting board and tenting them with foil. She added the shallots to the hot skillet and gave them a quick stir. “My place is… a bit bigger than this. There’s more room there, but… I don’t know. It’s not home. If that makes sense.” She turned the burner under the spinach off, and added several glugs of red wine to the shallots, stirring them with a wooden spoon. “I’ve only lived there for the past six months or so, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s mine. And then, dumping my ex…” She trailed off with a wince. Wasn’t “never bring up your ex on the first date” rule number one when it came to dating?

If Mr. Gold had heard the rule, he was polite enough not to mention it. She looked askance at him as he shed his jacket, draping it carefully over the back of the chair. Meticulous fingers carefully removed his cufflinks, dropping them into his trouser pocket. Rolling the cuffs of his sleeves up to his elbows, he walked over to the cutting board, selecting a knife from the knife block. He glanced at her for permission. “May I?” he asked, gesturing with the knife toward the foil-covered steaks.

Belle smiled warmly at him. “Please,” she said. In all their years of dating, Greg had never once helped her to prepare dinner. Even asking him to fetch something from the fridge while she minded three different pans was like pulling teeth. More often than not, she’d have to beg him just to stop working out or watching TV and please,  _ please _ join her for dinner. Most nights he’d wolf down whatever was in front of him, frown at her plate and ask if she was “really going to eat all of that,” and leave her to finish eating and clean up alone. 

Having Mr. Gold helping her in the kitchen was such a small thing, but one that spread warm contentment through her chest. She watched him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. The deep red of his shirt complemented the healthy tan of his skin, and brought out the highlights in his long hair. The silk and wool of his waistcoat hugged the trim lines of his waist, and the muscles of his forearms flexed lightly with every slice of the blade in his long-fingered hands. The sharp angles and planes of his face were thrown in harsh relief by the yellow light from the stove. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he focused on his task. Resting most of his weight on his left leg didn’t seem to cause him too much discomfort, but cocked one hip toward Belle. The silence between them was companionable, broken only by the slice of the knife and the quiet bubbling of the red wine sauce. He gave her a sidelong glance, and she quickly turned her attention back to what she was doing, cheeks warming and stomach fluttering. 

She marveled at how comfortable she was with a man she hardly knew, despite her nerves and the mounting tension between them. In four years with Greg she’d never felt this blend of nervous excitement and contentment as she did with this strange man, in a stranger’s kitchen. It was intimacy in a way that felt new and refreshing, and yet somehow familiar. All this, and she didn’t even know his first name.

All of a sudden the not knowing became absolutely unbearable, and she blurted out, “What’s your name?”

At that exact moment, he asked, “Do you miss him?”

They stared at each other for a beat, then both laughed nervously. “Sorry, you go first,” she said, turning the burner off once the sauce reached the right thickness.

Without prompting, he pivoted on his good foot and grabbed both plates from the kitchen table. “I was just wondering if you miss him at all - your ex,” he clarified, serving equal amounts of steak on each plate before handing them to Belle. His eyes remained carefully on what he was doing, studiously avoiding making eye contact with her.

She snorted. “Not at all. Honestly, I stayed with him more out of familiarity than anything. The relationship was dead long before I called it quits. It just took him cheating on me…  _ again _ … to motivate me to end it.” She quickly served sauteed greens and roasted potatoes, spooning the rich red wine sauce onto the thinly sliced cuts of beef. “I guess I just stayed with him because I thought, ‘well, being unhappy in a relationship has to be better than being unhappy single, right?’” She chanced a glance at him, wincing a little at his frown. “Maybe it was silly of me.”

“No,” he said quickly, taking the plate she offered and taking his seat. She mirrored his movement. “No, I understand completely. You accept any ill treatment because it’s less frightening than the thought of starting over. Even if it means that your happy ending isn’t as blissful as you’d once hoped.”

Belle nodded eagerly. God, he understood. He really understood. Still, they weren’t here to talk about past relationships. “Well, enough about that,” she said, raising her wine glass. Mr. Gold did the same. “Here’s to…” She paused, considering his words. A slow smile spread across her face. “To happy beginnings,” she said.

“To happy beginnings,” he echoed, “and new paths.” 

They clinked their glasses together and took a sip, gazing at each other warmly over the rims of their glasses. Quickly swallowing her mouthful of wine, she said, “So, this is our fourth time meeting, and I still don’t know your full name. I’ve never been on a date with a man I wasn’t on a first-name basis with. Care to share?”

He smiled slyly at her across the table. “I could,” he allowed. “For a price.”

“Oh really?” She gave him a cheeky smile, leaning forward on her elbows. “And, uh, what did you have in mind?”

His eyes flickered down to her lips, his tongue darting out to moisten his own. Her breath hitched in her throat, and his eyes darkened in reaction. “Oh, I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement,” he murmured. 

“Hmm… well, I think you’ll find that I’m pretty impatient,” she said, “and I don’t much feel like negotiating just now. Would you settle for an I.O.U.?”

He leaned back in his seat, pretending to look pensive. “Normally I don’t accept I.O.U.s. But for you, Miss French—“

“Belle.”

He paused for a beat, and his grin grew wider. “Belle,” he repeated softly. Her stomach flipped pleasantly at the sound. “For you, Belle, I’ll make an exception.”

He held his hand out; she laid hers in it. His skin burned against hers, setting her blood fizzing through her veins like champagne, and for a moment she thought he was going to lean in and kiss her knuckles. But he didn’t. He shook her hand firmly once, twice, and released it. 

“Rumford,” he said. “My name is Rumford Gold.”

“Well, Rumford,” she said, tasting his name on her tongue for the first time. It was an unusual name, old fashioned and a bit formal. Not unlike the man sitting across from her. It suited him, she decided. “We’d better eat before it gets cold.”

Spearing a potato on his fork, he took a bite, making a sound of enjoyment as he chewed and swallowed. “I don’t get it,” he said.

Belle swallowed the bite in her mouth. “Hm? Get what?”

He gestured to her. “You’re gorgeous, intelligent, funny, and successful. And on top of all of that, you can cook. What on  _ earth _ are you doing coming here to be alone for the holidays?”

She shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t really have any family to visit. Some aunts and uncles back in Australia I was never that close with, some cousins I barely remember.” She took a swallow of wine. “Normally I get together with a group of friends for Christmas, but they were more Greg’s friends than mine, so I was uninvited after the breakup.” Honestly, that was no loss. Greg’s friends were all in the modeling industry, like him, and hadn’t really put much effort into finding common ground with her. Not surprising, given how most of them had facilitated his affairs over the years. “I have one really good friend, Neal, but his girlfriend… well, she’s the jealous type. So Christmas with him is sort of off-limits.”

“I see.”

“What about you?” she asked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “How do you celebrate? Do you have any family you see?”

For a brief moment, his eyes took on a sorrowful cast, his mouth turning down in misery. He quickly raised his wine glass to his lips, taking a gulp. When the glass was lowered, his expression was guarded. “No family,” he said quietly. “I haven’t had anything to celebrate this time of year in… a long time.”

Belle looked at him uncertainly. It was as clear as day to her that there was a story to be told, one that caused him a great deal of pain. Just as obvious to her was the fact that he wasn’t willing to talk about it. Maybe another time.

She reached a hand across the table to squeeze his. “Maybe we could change that,” she offered with a hopeful smile.

The crooked smile he offered her was weak, but there was genuine warmth in his eyes underneath the hurt. “Perhaps,” he allowed.

The conversation flowed more easily between them from there, touching on everything from books they’d read, to antiques he collected, to how life in Maine differed from New York City. After dinner, Belle and Rumford retired to the living room, where he insisted that she take the seat closest to the fire. 

“You’re my guest,” she argued stubbornly, “and I say you get the warmest seat.”

“If you want to get technical, I own the cottage, and you’re not my tenant, so you’re more the guest than I am,” he retorted with a chuckle. When she’d opened her mouth to argue, he pressed his advantage. “I’m wearing layers. If I get cold, I can put my jacket back on.”

Well, that was a tragedy she simply wouldn’t allow to happen. As far as she was concerned, she could think of all sorts of ways they could both keep warm if he so much as shivered. Until then, she’d play along. Toeing off her shoes, she settled on the couch with her feet curled under her, tugging on Rumford’s hand to encourage him to sit next to her. He sat with both feet planted on the floor, his body turned to face her. Her eyes greedily took in all of him. The flickering light from the hearth cast shadows in the creases on his face, glinting off the silver in his hair. With his relaxed posture, his suit jacket still draped over the back of the kitchen chair, and the soft smile on his face, he looked more at ease than she’d ever seen him. 

His eyes were riveted to her face, both his hands fidgeting with the golden handle of his cane. “You look beautiful. I should have told you earlier,” he said with a sigh.

Belle flushed with pleasure, nibbling nervously on her lower lip. “You look pretty handsome yourself,” she flirted back, her fingers reaching out to touch the soft cotton cuff of his wine red shirt where it was still rolled up around his elbows. “I love this color on you. It brings out your eyes.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes lowering in… guilt? “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“When you called, I could have been here in five minutes,” he confessed, slowly spinning his cane between his hands. “I, er, may have changed my shirt and tie first. If I hadn’t, I’d have been here sooner, and Jones wouldn’t have tried to get in.”

She rolled her eyes in affectionate exasperation. “You can’t blame yourself for something he tried to do. I’m just glad you came when you did. And I’m glad you’re here now.” Just then, something else he’d said registered with her. A satisfied grin spread slowly across her face. “Wait a minute. You changed clothes, even though you thought I just wanted you to look at the sink?”

Rumford’s cheeks darkened to nearly the color of his shirt. “Nothing wrong with wanting to look my best,” he mumbled, maybe a little defensively.

Oh, this darling man. While she’d been worrying that she’d made a horrible first and second impression on him, he’d been just as concerned about his appearance. For her. Not for the girls at the clubs, or the latest assistant he was “working late” with. For  _ her. _

Her blue eyes met his brown, and held them. The warm glow of the firelight caught in his irises, teasing hints of amber from their chocolate brown depths. The first hints of silvery five o’clock shadow glinted in the low light. Helpless to resist, as though pulled by some inner gravitation, her hand came up to rest on his cheek, his prickly warmth sinking into her cool palm. His eyes fluttered shut at her touch as he nuzzled further into her hand. When they opened again his pupils were dilated, longing blazing in their depths.

“Belle,” he breathed, “may I kiss you?”

“You’d better,” she said.

He leaned in slowly, giving her a chance to turn away or change her mind. Far from doing that, her fingers curled around his jaw, encouraging him forward until his lips brushed hers. It was a chaste kiss - just a press of their lips that left Belle wanting more. Rumford pulled back, eyes questioning.

“Do it again,” she whispered, leaning in for another.

He obliged happily, leaning in to kiss her again. Her lower lip slipped between his and he sucked on it gently, scraping his teeth against it in a way that sent a blazing hot frisson of  _ want _ through her.

This time she was the one to pull back, breathing heavily.

He winced. “No good?” he asked breathlessly.

“ _ Very _ good,” she assured him. “Sorry, it’s - it’s not you. This is a me issue, not a you issue.”

“I see.”

“Just, my ex wasn’t much of a kisser. I mean, he never seemed to like doing it, and after a while I just sort of stopped asking.” Oh god, she was babbling. She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “And then you come here, and you look so good in that suit, and you help me with dinner, and you kiss me like  _ that, _ and—“

“Belle.” His hands came up to guide over her cheeks, his fingers threading through her hair. “Close your eyes.”

Well, at least he hadn’t told her to shut her mouth, she thought with wry amusement. She obeyed, letting her eyes fall shut. His fingers exerted gentle pressure on her head, encouraging her to tilt her chin up. She felt the warm puff of his breath on her face. Instead of going straight for her mouth, though, his lips pressed feather-light on one eyelid, then the other. Belle gave over to his ministrations, heart hammering in her chest, as he peppered her face with quick, open-mouthed kisses. Never in her life had she felt so desired, so cherished. His lips pressed lingeringly at the corner of her mouth, and her own parted on a gasp. Pressing his advantage, he swooped in and locked his lips with hers, the tip of his tongue swiping at her lower lip, seeking permission. She gave it with a breathy whimper, her hands resting on his shoulders to ground herself lest she find herself floating away from the sheer joy of kissing him. He welcomed her touch with a groan of his own. Soon her hands were pressing at his shoulders, pushing until he was leaning back into the backrest, Belle following eagerly. The chiffon of her skirt got tangled around her legs for a moment, and she made a frustrated sound into his mouth. After a brief struggle she managed to extricate herself, throwing one of her legs over both of his own so she was straddling his thighs.

She pulled away just long enough to ask, “Is this okay?”

“God, yes,” he muttered, and then he was kissing her again, kissing and kissing until her mind went quiet and all she knew was the warmth he was giving her: the warmth of his lips and tongue against hers, the heat of his hands bleeding through the satin of her bodice as they wandered restlessly over her back, the feverishness of his body through his cotton shirt and the wool of his waistcoat. More than anything, the hot, insistent throb between her legs. Her hands slid up and down his chest, loving the contrast between the wool at the front of his waistcoat and the silk at the back.

She broke the kiss again, smiling at the noise of protest he made. Looking at him - at his heavy-lidded eyes dark with lust, his thin lips kiss-swollen, his breathing ragged - she knew one thing: she didn’t want him leaving tonight.

“Mr. Gold,” she said, surprising herself with the huskiness of her own voice, “I have a confession to make: the sink isn’t the only reason I called you here tonight.”

For a moment he looked lost. Then his brain caught up, and he smirked at her devilishly. “What seems to be the problem, Miss French?”

“The, uh, the bed. It makes an awful lot of noise when you bounce on it.”

“I’ve never heard any complaints.”

Belle bit mischievously at her lower lip. His eyes lowered, drawn by the movement. “Well, it only happens when there’s two people on the bed. If you don’t want to take my word for it, I could show you. And in the interest of avoiding any more misunderstandings,” she added, “I’ll clarify and say I’m inviting you up for sex.”

His face fell in what Belle could only assume was disappointment, and Belle’s heart sank. Of course someone like him would want to wait. She knew she was coming on too strong, but she was only here for another week and a half. He must be thinking the worst of her now. She made to move off of him, but his hands gripped her waist, keeping her still.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t love to,” he said quickly. “But I had no idea the evening would end like this. I’m afraid I didn’t bring protection.”

“Oh.” And here she was, jumping to the worst conclusion again. “Well… I’m on birth control,” she offered, “and I haven’t…  _ been _ with anyone since my last exam.”

“Me neither.”

In unison, Belle leaned back down while Rumford tugged her to meet him for another kiss. Before he could deepen it, she pulled back again. This time he followed, trying to banish any distance between them. She was tempted to let him, but this needed to be said first.

“Mm. Rum, wait.” He finally let her go with a barely concealed pout that was more endearing than intimidating. “I just… I should probably warn you that I’m not very good at this,” she admitted reluctantly.

“This being…?”

“This. You know, sex.”

Belle braced herself for any of a number of reactions from him. Polite disbelief, maybe, or maybe a sudden realization that he’d left the stove on and had to get home right away. 

She hadn’t been prepared for laughter.

Face burning in humiliation, she tried to climb off of him, but he clasped her closer. “No - wait. I’m sorry for laughing.” His hands slid up to either side of her face, tilting her head until she looked at him. “But there is no way in hell you’re bad at sex. If you’re a fraction as good as you are at kissing, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She shrugged one shoulder sullenly. “That’s not what Greg said,” she mumbled.

He gave a gentle scoff at that. “I don’t trust the judgment of a man too stupid and self-absorbed to kiss a woman as beautiful as you whenever the opportunity presented itself,” he said. He must have read some lingering doubts on her face, because his eyes softened. “What sorts of things would he say?” he asked.

Unable to look him in the face, her eyes lowered to his tie. Her fingers teased at the knot idly. “I don’t know. I take too long to get turned on, certain positions don’t work for me, I don’t like it when he ‘accidentally’ tries to put it… well, you know.” At some point she must have pulled his tie free of his waistcoat, because she was now caressing the length of silk in her hand. “Mostly he just liked to tell me how I don’t look as good with my clothes off.”

He shook his head in outright denial. “No, that I refuse to believe.”

“Well, he did. And I guess he’d know, since all of the women he cheated on me with were models.” She didn’t bother mentioning Greg’s nasty little habit of grabbing a handful of soft flesh at her tummy or thigh and jiggling it. It was something he only did when he was sleeping with someone else, and had been the hint she needed to finally break things off little over a week ago.

He rolled his eyes at that. “Most women aren’t models,” he said. He bumped her nose playfully with his. “And at fifty years old, I’m hardly a paragon of male perfection, myself. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me my wrinkles, I’ll extend you the same courtesy should I come across a stretch mark or bit of cellulite. Deal?”

Belle pretended to look thoughtful, a feat utterly ruined by the fact that she was still straddling his lap. “Two deals in one night, hmm? I suspect making deals with you is going to be a new bad habit.”

“The first of many, I hope,” he growled.

“Well, then, Mr. Gold, I believe you have yourself a deal.” Leaning in, she allowed her lips to just barely ghost across his before she stood up, trailing his tie between her fingers. She slunk across the room to the stairs, crooking a finger invitingly.

He smirked, his eyes following her across the room. “You’re already better at this than you think,” he said, rising and following her up the stairs. He took the first few steps slowly, acclimating himself to the unfamiliar stairs, but soon was following her into the bedroom.

Without preamble his free hand curled around her waist, tugging her in close. Wrapping her arms around his neck, letting her fingers play in the hair that curled around his collar, she tugged him in for a kiss. His lips slanted eagerly over hers, and their tongues twined sensually together. Belle trailed one hand down his chest, her fingers deftly popping open the buttons of his waistcoat one by one. Once she had it completely undone she spread it open with both hands, using it as an excuse to map the warm planes of his chest with her palms and fingers. Making an agreeing sound, Rumford carefully shrugged out of the vest one arm at a time, shifting his weight onto his left leg so he could let go of his cane long enough to slip his right arm free. By the time he finished, Belle was already attacking his tie, pulling the knot free and slipping the silk from his collar. She was already working on the buttons at the front of his shirt when his hands came to rest on hers.

“Your turn,” he growled, spinning her in his arms so her back was to him. He glanced consideringly between his cane and the zipper at her back. Coming to a decision, he leaned the cane against the full-sized bed.

“Will your leg be okay?” she asked softly, concerned for him but not wanting to break the mood.

He waved her off. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Just as long as we make it to the bed at some point.” He looked past her shoulder, paused, and shifted them both a foot to the right. “Eyes forward,” he instructed her.

Belle looked forward and promptly blushed. Just in front of her was a hip-height wooden dresser with a large mirror on top, perfectly positioned to show everything they were doing. “Rum--”

“Shh. Let me,” he breathed into her ear, the rush of warm air at her neck making her shiver. With reverent hands, he slowly swept her curls over her right shoulder. He undid the hook and eye closure at the top of her zip, pulling the tiny tab slowly, slowly, inch by inch, until the zipper ended at her hips. The cool air hitting Belle’s back made her shiver, goosebumps raising on her forearms. Warm, rough hands caressed her back, pushing the dress slowly down her arms until it dropped to pool around her feet, leaving Belle clad only in her skimpy lace bra and panties.

Her eyes raised to his reflection in the mirror, anxious to see her reaction. He hissed, taking a step back from her with a grimace. Oh god, it was worse than she thought. Her arms came up automatically to cover as much of herself as she could.

“What happened?” he asked. “That looks painful.”

Belle blinked. Come to think of it, he wasn’t looking at her reflection. He’d stepped back from her, his gaze lowered to her backside. Her bruised backside. Of course. When she’d checked it in the shower this morning, it was still a vivid purple, the outer edges beginning to go green and yellow. It must look a sight. She let her arms relax and fall to her sides.

“I slipped on some ice the day I got here, and took a spill,” she said. “It’s fine; it hardly even hurts anymore.”

His hand reached out to rub soothingly at her bruised flesh. Raising his eyes to hers in the mirror, his jaw dropped. “Oh, Belle,” he murmured, stepping close enough that she could feel his heat in the air between them. “You’re stunning.” His hands came to rest on her waist. She shivered at the contrast of his warm hands against her cool skin. “And your ex is utterly mad.”

Belle leaned back into Rum, craving more of his warmth. As if released from some self-imposed restriction, Rum bent to press kisses on the side of Belle’s neck, pausing at a spot that made the breath catch in her throat. His front was plastered to her back, the rigid line of his arousal slotted perfectly between her cheeks. 

Both of them watched, spellbound, as Rum’s tanned hands roamed over her creamy pale skin, trailing paths of fire wherever they went. The slow, open-mouthed kisses he rained on her throat set her aflame, leaving her panting and quivering in his arms. Desperate for more, she arched back into him, rubbing the cleft of her ass against his hardness. A low groan tore itself from his throat, the vibration of it pulling a gasp from Belle’s lips. One of his hands slipped behind her back, fumbling with the closures of the garment until they sprung open. She shrugged out of it eagerly. His hands were drawn to the modest, pale mounds of her breasts as though magnetized, his fingertips tracing each curve.

“God, Belle, so soft,” he whispered into her ear, nibbling at her earlobe.

His fingers spiralled slowly around her breasts, drawing ever closer to her aching nipples without quite touching them. She arched her back, silently begging for more. His filthy chuckle in her ear sent a bolt of desire through her, leaving her rubbing her thighs together in a desperate bid for friction. 

“More, Rum,” she panted. “Please, more.”

Taking mercy on her, he took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, plucking, pinching, and rolling them in turns. She cried out, her head falling to his shoulder, helpless against the onslaught of pleasure. Needing something to do with her hands, she reached behind her to entangle her fingers in his hair, holding him in place where he was sucking on the juncture where neck met shoulder. Her other hand slipped between his hips and hers to cup him through the fabric of his trousers. He swore softly against her shoulder. Not to be outdone, his right hand crept down her body and slipped inside her panties.

“God, you’re drenched,” he hissed as his fingers dragged through her folds. Belle’s hips bucked helplessly under his tender ministrations, her voice pouring free from her throat in desperate moans. He slipped one finger inside her as his thumb rubbed slow circles around her clit. Rum worked her slowly but steadily, whispering praise and encouragement in her ear as she neared her peak. All too soon she was shattering around his finger, crying out in pleasure as stars burst behind her vision. He guided her through the aftershocks, pulling his fingers free and sucking them clean.

Head still spinning, Belle pivoted in his arms. Out of consideration for his leg, her push toward the bed was more of a nudge than a shove. He took the hint, sitting on the edge while Belle busied herself with his shirt buttons. She shoved the shirt off his shoulders, letting him pull his arms free of the sleeves while her hands greedily mapped the planes of his chest. His frame was spare and trim, with wiry muscle that she found much more appealing than her ex’s bulk. Running her fingers through his sparse chest hair, she rasped her thumbs over his flat brown nipples, reveling in the ragged gasp she pulled from him. 

Her hands were straying down to his belt when his own stopped her. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “My shoes.”

Belle giggled at her mistake, moving out of the way so Rum could untie and toe off his shiny black oxfords. As soon as he finished, Belle was straddling him, shaking fingers working at his belt buckle and popping open the button of his fly. Working the zipper carefully over the bulge of his erection, they both worked to get his trousers done, wriggling awkwardly with a shared chuckle, until he managed to get them around his ankles and kick them off. As if by mutual agreement, they scooted up the bed until their heads were resting on the pillows at the head of the bed.

Rum reached for her, tugging her against him until he was pressed, hot and throbbing, against her belly. Only the lace of her panties and the cotton of his boxers separated them, and even that was too much. His lips claimed hers again, sliding wetly against hers as his tongue plundered her mouth. Rolling onto his back, he tugged her on top to straddle him. Belle moaned at the feel of his body pressed to hers. 

She broke the kiss, keeping no more than a few millimeters between them. “Still want this?” she asked against his lips.

“More than I can say,” he said softly. 

With a quick shuffle they both rid themselves of their underwear, and in moments Belle was poised over him, the head of him pressing deliciously at her entrance. She lowered herself onto him slowly, her breathy sigh drowned out by his guttural groan as he was seated fully in her tight, slick heat. 

Rum’s hands gripped at her hips - not thrusting or moving, just seeking purchase while she acclimated herself to being filled. He was so hot inside her, just thick enough to stretch her slightly without causing discomfort. She lifted her hips until the head of him was poised once more at her entrance, on the verge of slipping out of her, biting her lower lip as he growled with barely restrained lust. Sinking back onto him with a moan, she set a slow rhythm, feeling every inch of him slipping in and out of her slick channel with every roll of her hips. No longer content to lie back, Rum thrust up to meet every downward thrust of her own. One of his hands left her hips, threading through her hair to pull her in for a messy, perfect kiss. Keening desperately into his mouth, Belle sped up, chasing after the climax that remained just out of reach. Rum’s free hand reached for her breast, pinching her nipple in time with the thrusts of her hips. That last bit of stimulation was what she needed, sending her over the edge. Her mouth pulled free of his as she cried out with completion, her inner walls spasming around him. Her climax pushed him over the edge; he came with a sharp thrust and a hoarse shout, his heat flooding her in waves.

For several minutes they lay there, panting, their sweat cooling and drying in the slight chill of the bedroom. Soon he slipped out of her. Getting the blankets out from under them was an awkward affair of grunting, shuffling, and squirming, but soon the two of them were under the covers and in each other’s arms, Belle’s head resting on Rum’s chest.

“Utterly mad,” Rum mumbled one last time. Belle hummed happily as they both slowly drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this lived up to expectations! Gee, I wonder what Emma's reaction will be if/when she finds out that Belle nailed her landlord on her bed.
> 
> Chapter title stolen from "Winter Wonderland" by Eurythmics.


	6. Reindeer Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I really need to stop wanting to name chapters. I always have to come up with something at the last minute. I can't just NOT give one chapter a title.

_ December 20th _

Belle was not a morning person. Never had been. She was cranky, short-tempered, and generally moody until the sun was well into the sky. She preferred to think of herself as “tempestuous” in the early hours; Neal affectionately referred to this time as her “heinous bitch” mode.

So when Rum nudged her nose with his, pulling her from the cobwebby place between asleep and awake, she considered her wordless whine of protest very polite. For her, anyway.

He chuckled. “Not an early bird, I take it?”

“No,” she mumbled, burying her face in her pillow. “What time is it?” Her voice was muffled by the plush surface. She considered lifting her head from the plush surface so he could hear her better, but that seemed like too much effort at the moment.

“A bit past eight,” he replied, his fingers caressing her upper arm. “I’ve got to get home so I can change clothes and open my shop.”

“Mm.” It was considerate of him to wake her instead of just sneaking out while she slept. The least she could do was get up to see him out. “Do you have a few minutes? I can make tea. Or coffee, if you prefer.”

He was quiet for a moment, frowning at her like she was a puzzle he was struggling to solve. “Tea would be lovely,” he said quietly.

Nodding muzzily, Belle reluctantly sat up, heedless of the covers slipping down to pool around her lap. She didn’t miss the way Rum’s eyes roamed her figure, darkening at the sight of her bare skin. If he didn’t have someplace to be, she’d be giving into her urge to tug him down for an encore of last night. With a cheeky glance over her shoulder, she stood up, walking unabashedly nude to the closet, where she pulled on her fluffy yellow bathrobe. She felt the weight of Rum’s eyes on her with every move. “I’ll get the tea going while you get dressed,” she called over her shoulder as she headed out the door.

Hurrying down the stairs while twisting her hair into a sloppy bun, she tiptoed across the freezing floor into the kitchen. In moments she had the kettle on and the table set with coffee mugs, milk, and sugar. By the time Rum made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, the tea was already steeping in two of Emma’s mismatched coffee mugs. 

Belle looked him up and down as he stepped in and took a seat at the table. Mr. Gold cut an attractive figure in those perfectly pressed, tailored suits of his. The clean lines showed his slim frame to its best advantage. He came across as poised, distinguished and polished, with every last hair and crease placed just so. 

That wasn’t the case this morning. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair, and was soon joined by his waistcoat. A night on the bedroom floor had left his shirt and trousers wrinkled. Rum hadn’t bothered doing the top three buttons of his shirt, and his tie was draped unknotted around his collar. He’d done his best to comb through his bedhead with his fingers, but there was nothing to be done about the stubble that had grown in overnight.

Belle had been attracted to Mr. Gold’s poised, aloof persona from the start, but she found that she really liked this soft, rumpled, and open version of him. She wondered if anyone else got to see this side of him. 

They both took their seats at the table - her in her bathrobe, him half-dressed - and prepared their tea. Belle took hers with milk and a half teaspoon of sugar. Rum’s tea was black, with enough sugar to rot teeth. The warm smile she gave him over the rim of her mug was met with an answering glimmer from him. It warmed her more than the hot drink ever could.

They drank in silence, content to simply enjoy one another’s company in the quiet of the early morning. Eventually Rum drained his cup, glancing regretfully at the microwave clock.

“I should be going if I don’t want to be late.”

Belle nodded. “I’ll walk you to the door.” Despite his hurry, their steps toward the entrance were slow and reluctant. Tugging his coat off the wall peg, she held it out so he could thread his arms through the sleeves. “I had a good time last night,” she said. 

His smile was a soft thing. “As did I.”

“I’d like to do it again, if you’re open to the idea. Not just the sex,” she was quick to add. “I really enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe... we could go out for dinner sometime?”

He hesitated. “I--”

_ Knock, knock, knock. _

Belle frowned at the interruption. Who could that be? With an uncertain glance at Rum, she unlocked the door and swung it open. On the other side was a woman in a fluffy white coat and knit cap, her black hair styled in a pixie cut. She greeted Belle with an affable smile.

“Hi! You must be Belle. I’m… oh… uh…” The woman laughed nervously, glancing between the two people inside. “I didn’t realize you had… company.”

Belle winced. She could just imagine the sort of picture she and Rum painted: her in nothing but a bathrobe, hair uncombed, and him with his unshaven face, wearing what were obviously yesterday’s clothes. It was clear as day that he’d spent the night, and there was no plausible explanation for that apart from the obvious one.

She wasn’t embarrassed at all to be seen with Rum in such a state. After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. They were both consenting adults, and she felt more of a connection with him than she’d felt with anyone in a long time - if ever. If this woman didn’t know not to drop by someone’s home unannounced, it was on her to accept the inevitable result.

Belle looked over her shoulder to shoot Rum a reassuring glance… and paused. Where before he had looked relaxed and at ease, Mr. Gold now held himself stiffly, his cane propped in his hands, held between her and him like some sort of talisman. His lips were pressed in a thin line, and his eyes were shuttered and cold.

“I was just leaving,” he said smoothly, stepping out the door while the strange woman stepped deferentially to the side. “Mrs. Nolan,” he said with a nod. He glanced over his shoulder at Belle for a fraction of a second longer. “Miss French.”

Belle watched without a word as Mr. Gold limped to his black Cadillac without a word, feeling like something dear was slipping through her fingers. Something about the people in this town caused Rum to pull back from her, to erect a wall that kept him separate. Now wasn’t the time to figure out the cause, but she would. Soon.

Bringing her attention back to the woman on her stoop, she plastered the most genuine smile she could manage on her face, fearing that it was probably more of a grimace. “Can I help you?” she asked politely.

“Oh. Right.” The woman took a deep breath, seeming to gather her thoughts. “Sorry. My name’s Mary Margaret. I’m one of Emma’s friends. I, uh, I heard that Killian Jones dropped by here last night, looking for Emma. I guess I wanted to… check in and… make sure you were alright.” Her gaze kept wandering distractedly over her shoulder, watching as Mr. Gold’s car backed out of the driveway.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Belle didn’t offer any further information. This woman seemed nice enough - certainly not as menacing as the man at her door had been last night - but something held Belle back. Maybe it was the way her eyes curiously darted around, absorbing every detail. Or maybe it was just the fact that this woman popped in on a stranger unannounced.

“Good. That’s… that’s good.” She looked around nonchalantly. “Sooo… Mr. Gold was here awfully early,” she said conversationally.

...Or maybe it was that she was not so subtly fishing for information. “He was,” she agreed.

Mary Margaret waited, clearly hoping for a bit more information. When it wasn’t forthcoming, her face took a compassionate look. “Look, I’m not one to gossip, but I think you should know, for your sake: Mr. Gold has a bit of a reputation in town.”

And there it was: the reason why Rumford pulled back any time someone else came near. She’d seen the way the townsfolk reacted to him - with a respect that bordered on antipathy from some, fear from others. On the phone, Emma had seemed annoyed when Rum came by for the rent, and acted like he was a minor nuisance. In the diner, the waitress Ruby had seemed defensive around him, like an animal backed into a corner. She’d called him a jerk after he left, when as far as Belle had seen, he hadn’t done anything to merit name calling. And now, Mary Margaret had seemed just as concerned at Rum’s presence in her house as she had about Killian’s. Maybe it had something to do with his standing as both landlord and money lender in town. Or maybe there was more to it than that.

She burned with curiosity. Rum hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about himself last night. Sure, he readily offered information on the antiques he’d acquired over the years, and shared opinions on books they’d both read. But she knew next to nothing about him personally. If she asked Mary Margaret, she was sure to learn more about the mysterious man.

But as tempting as that was, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wanted to learn about Rum, yes, but she wanted to give him the opportunity to tell her himself. He deserved the chance to tell her his side while she was free of the town’s biases.

“I appreciate your concern, and I’ll keep what you said in mind,” Belle said. “But I can take care of myself.” She softened the edges of her hard words with a kind smile. “Now, I’ve got to get back to my writing. Unless there was something else you needed?”

“Um… no. I guess not.”

“Well, then, have a nice day.” Belle pushed the door shut before Mary Margaret could protest, clicking the deadbolt into place with a sigh. “Hell,” she muttered.

The urge to get dressed and hurry over to Rum’s shop was nearly overwhelming. She could see him, assure him that she hadn’t listened to a word Mary Margaret said, and ask him to tell her anything about himself he wanted to share.

And by coming on so strong, she could very well scare him off. He hadn’t made any effort to tell his story before she could hear it elsewhere; if anything, he seemed to want to avoid talking about it altogether. No, she’d give him some space for today. She could call him this evening. They’d figure things out from there.

******

Emma and Henry were locked in a heated argument. They’d been bickering for the past fifteen minutes, with no sign of stopping. Stubbornly sticking to his unreasonable stance, Henry simply refused to see sense.

“ _ Mean Girls _ is not a Christmas movie!” he insisted, licking his thumb to snag a stray cookie crumb from his plate.

“What are you talking about?” Emma demanded. “It’s got that  _ Jingle Bell Rock _ scene. That makes it a Christmas movie!”

“No way. A movie needs more than one Christmassy scene to be a Christmas movie.”

“What about that  _ Narnia  _ movie we watched yesterday? That only had one Christmas scene.”

Henry scoffed. “The movie where they keep saying how it’s ‘always winter but never Christmas?’ The one where Santa actually shows up and gives the kids gifts? The one where the lion is  _ Jesus? _ That’s more of a Christmas movie than  _ Mean Girls. _ ”

Emma took a gulp of hot chocolate. “Fine, fine,  _ Narnia  _ is more of a Christmas movie than  _ Mean Girls, _ ” she conceded. “But they’re both Christmas movies, and there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.” Henry opened his mouth to protest, but she overrode him. “Get used to it, kid. We’re watching it. Consider this payback for all the times you made me binge all eight  _ Harry Potter _ movies.”

Henry sighed huffily, slouching in his seat. “I guess that’s fair,” he said with ill grace.

“Darn right it is.”

Emma started the movie, smiling to herself as Henry snuggled up at her side. They’d spent all day yesterday watching movies. Henry had spent the first few hours curled up in the stuffed armchair, wrapped tightly in a blanket like a burrito. After lunch he’d migrated to the opposite end of the couch from Emma, and by dinner they were cuddling together under a blanket while they watched yet another Christmas movie. 

To be honest, Emma didn’t actually consider  _ Mean Girls _ to be a Christmas movie, but Henry had wanted another stay-in day, and she needed a break from festive holiday cheer. Once this movie was done, she’d see if she could convince him to go out. If not, it’d take approximately zero effort to coax him into wiping the floor with her at one of the card games she’d brought with her. 

Still, she couldn’t find it in herself to be too annoyed with the sugary-sweet movies they’d been watching. If that was what it took to fix her relationship with her son, she’d watch Rudolf and Frosty on repeat for the rest of her life, without complaint.

Well. Maybe a  _ little _ complaining.

On the TV, Cady was sitting at the lunch table with the Plastics for the first time when Henry spoke up. “Mom?” His eyes never left the screen, but Emma could tell that all of his attention was on her.

“What’s up?”

Henry chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek. “I think I want to meet my dad,” he said.

Emma fought back the urge to sigh with an effort. She’d had a feeling this was coming. Henry wasn’t the type to bury his head in the sand to avoid something unpleasant. He had no fear of the unknown; if there was a problem in his life, he wanted to face it head on. Of course meeting his dad would be no different.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll give him a call and see when he’s free. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

Pausing the movie, Emma excused herself to the bedroom to call Neal. She had no idea how this conversation was going to go, and the last thing Henry needed was to hear his parents bickering before he even got to meet one of them. She’d already programmed his number into her cell, anticipating Henry’s desire to meet his father. 

_ “Hello, this is Neal Cassidy.” _

“Hey. It’s, uh, it’s Emma.” Plopping herself down on the bed, she picked nervously at a fingernail.

_ “Hey, Em. I was wondering if I’d hear from you.” _

“Yeah, things were… a little rough around here, for a bit,” she admitted. “But Henry’s got the general jist of the truth. He needed time to process, but he took it pretty well. All things considered.”

“ _ Cool. Cool.” _ A brief pause. Then,  _ “Sooo… does he want to meet up?” _

“Yeah. I was thinking we could go out and do something, maybe tomorrow? Some kind of activity, or something, where we can talk or ignore each other, depending on how awkward it is.”

_ “Not a bad idea. I’ve got a few ideas of things we can do. I’ll text ‘em to you and you can let me know what you and Henry decide. Sound good?” _

“Sounds good,” she echoed. “And, listen, Neal… Thank you. This hasn’t been easy for any of us, and you’ve been really cool about everything. You know, apart from a few jackass comments,” she added, hoping to lighten the mood.

Neal chuckled.  _ “Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make an ass of myself here and there,” _ he said. 

“You said it, not me.”

_ “And I noticed you’re not arguing. That’s gotta be a first, huh?” _

“Makes sense, though, doesn’t it? It’s the first time you were right about something; makes sense that it’d be the first time I don’t argue.” 

_ “Uh, excuse you, I’m right all the time. I’m a borderline genius.” _

God, it was  _ so easy _ to slip into their old habits: play-arguing, busting each other’s balls, making each other laugh. Neal’s goofy sense of humor was a huge part of why she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago. Talking with him, joking with him… it all brought her back to when she was a seventeen year old kid, moving from motel room to motel room, pulling scams for their next meal, their next night’s stay, their next day reveling in their new lives while they fled the old. They’d been some of the happiest days of her life.

And they were over. They’d ended the day Neal sold her out. She needed to remember that. 

Emma blurted out the first thing that popped into her head to put some distance between them. “What about your girlfriend? Have you told her about Henry?”

Neal’s sigh on the other end of the line sounded aggravated.  _ “Yeah, I told Tamara the night after you and I talked. She, uh, wasn’t happy about it.” _

She latched onto that. “Listen, Neal, if meeting Henry is gonna cause problems with your girlfriend--”

_ "No, no.” _ Emma guiltily shoved down the disappointment she felt at his denial. It wasn’t fair of her to want to keep Henry to herself, but she couldn’t help how she felt.  _ “She’ll get over it. She crashed at a friend’s house last night. She’ll probably be back tonight.” _

“Well, if you’re sure…”

_ "Yeah, I am. Listen, I gotta go - I need to at least pretend to work today if I’m gonna take tomorrow off. I’ll talk to you soon, Em.” _

“...Yeah. Talk soon.” Ending the call, Emma headed back toward the living room. “Alright, Henry, we’ll be meeting your dad tomo - hey! You can’t just skip ahead when it’s a movie you don’t want to watch!”

Henry gave her the most angelic look in his repertoire - the one he saved for when he was messing with her on purpose. “I didn’t skip scenes,” he protested. “I just also didn’t pause the movie after you left.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at her son. “Uh huh. Nice try. Just for that, we’re starting the movie over.”

“Nooo!”

******

_ December 21st _

Belle walked determinedly down the street toward the town’s antique store and pawnbroker. The harsh winter wind bit cruelly at her bare legs under her long wool coat. She felt the weight of eyes upon her, just as she had ever since she’d driven into town a few hours earlier. 

She’d spent the afternoon doing a little last-minute Christmas shopping. With Greg out of her life, she didn’t really have many people to buy for, but she could at least get some gifts for Neal and Tamara. Neal’s girlfriend might not care for Belle’s presence in his life, but that didn’t mean Belle couldn’t play nice.What Storybrooke lacked in chain stores, it more than made up for with tiny shops peddling handmade goods. A local pottery shop had a great selection of “surprise inside” mugs. For Tamara, she selected one with a kitten inside. Neal would get a kick out of the mug that would give him the finger every time he took a sip. A quick stop at a chocolaterie yielded a box of nut clusters for Neal and cherry cordials for Tamara. Finally, she picked up a couple of matching knit angora throw blankets for the pair of them. And if her eye strayed occasionally to a wool cashmere scarf in burgundy that would keep Rum warm in the frigid Maine winter, hopefully without sacrificing his sense of style… well, she wouldn’t presume to buy anything until she figured out just where they stood with each other.

Once she’d finished her impromptu shopping session, she headed over to the post office to have her gifts sent to Neal’s apartment overnight. It was while she was in line waiting to be served that she realized that everyone else in the building was giving her a wide berth, and making no secret of it. A brunette woman dressed conservatively in blue frowned at her in blatant disapproval, while a gorgeous woman with shoulder-length black hair, wearing a smart black pantsuit, eyed her with a speculative gleam in her eye. All in all, it was more attention than Belle had garnered since arriving at Storybrooke, and she wasn’t sure she liked being the center of such intense scrutiny.

She’d hurriedly finished her business in the post office and rushed out, eager to be away from the staring eyes. It didn’t help; for the first time, she realized that everyone in town was either staring at her, or making a point of looking elsewhere as she passed. She shivered, quickening her step toward Mr. Gold’s shop until she was shuffling inside. The bell at the door jingled cheerfully at her entrance.

Surprisingly, there was no trace of anyone in the shop - not even its proprietor. She took a few uncertain steps forward, when from the back room she heard an aggrieved sigh, followed by Rum’s increasingly familiar, irregular tread. He emerged from the back room with a scowl, looking as well put together as always. His mouth opened to deliver what was no doubt a scathing excuse for a greeting. Upon seeing her he stopped short, his eyes widening and his mouth snapping shut.

“Hey,” she said. 

“Miss French.”

A flash of irritation rushed through her, nearly masking the hurt underneath. Her lips pursed slightly. “I thought I was Belle to you after the other night.”

He said nothing.

Forcing an air of nonchalance, she stepped toward a display case, trailing her fingers over the flawless glass. She stared at the jewelry encased inside without really seeing any of it. “I thought there was something happening between us,” she continued. “Was I wrong?”

“Miss French, I--”

“ _ Belle.” _

They stared at each other - Mr. Gold’s eyes closed off and impassive, Belle’s jaw set stubbornly. After what felt like an eternity, his eyes lowered.

“Belle,” he conceded. “Storybrooke is a small town. People talk, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have,” she agreed with a firm nod. “That woman, Mary Margaret, wanted to tell me something about you and your… reputation? But I told her I’d rather hear it from you. If you’d answered your phone last night when I called, you’d know that.” His lips pressed in a thin line, and an unpleasant thought occurred to her. Maybe the reason he pushed her away whenever anyone else was around… was because he wasn’t single. On the night they’d met, she’d paid special attention to his left hand, seeing no traces of a wedding ring, or a tan line where one normally rested. But she’d never actually asked if he was involved with anyone. “Is that what this is about? You have someone at home - a girlfriend... or a boyfriend? - and you don’t want them finding out?” Her hand came to rest on her stomach, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. “Oh god, did I just…?”

“No!” He looked utterly disgusted with the thought. “No, it’s nothing like that. There’s been no one for years.”

Well, at least that put her mind at ease somewhat. Still, there was more to be said. “Then tell me what the problem is,” she insisted, her eyes beseeching. “It seems like whenever we’re alone, you start opening up to me. But then as soon as someone else shows up, you cut me off, shut me out.” She paused, hoping he’d say something. Defend himself. Explain himself. Anything. But his face remained impassive, and he didn’t say a word. “I really like you, Rum, and I want to see where this goes. But I can’t do that if you won’t let me in, just a little. Will you?”

His throat bobbed, and for a brief moment she thought that maybe she’d gotten through to him. She waited a full minute for some other reaction. But his stiff posture never relaxed, and his eyes remained glued to the floor.

She nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you what: I have a reservation for two over at that cute little Italian place down the street. I think it was called Tony’s Restaurant?” At his stiff nod, she continued. “I’ll be there between six and eight tonight. If you decide that you’re ready to talk to me, I’ll be there. If not… well…” She shrugged helplessly. “I really hope I’ll see you there.”

And with that, she’d said all that needed to be said. Turning on her heel, she walked out of her shop, the overhead bell mocking her with its cheery chime. Hunching her shoulders against the bitter cold, she hurried down the street toward the restaurant, ignoring the curious eyes around her. Her reservation wasn’t for another twenty minutes, but she’d at least like to get out of the cold Maine air.

_ Storybrooke is a small town. People talk. _ That was what Rum had said, and she was starting to see that for herself. She didn’t know what was being said about her, but she wasn’t afraid of a little gossip. As an author with a reasonably large fan base, she was no stranger to the way the rumor mill could grind a person down over time. She wondered if that was what had happened to Rum.

In the end, it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t going to spend her vacation chasing after a man who wouldn’t let himself be pursued. But she’d reached out one more time with a lifeline. If he took it, she’d do everything in her power to earn his confidence. If he didn’t… well, then she’d simply spend the rest of her holiday shut up in the cottage and focus on her writing until she forgot all about Rumford Gold and how alive he’d made her feel, however briefly.

******

Emma and Henry waited for Neal on a wooden bench outside of their apartment building, their breath fogging in the chilly New York air. The slight nip in their air was brisk enough to require them to bundle up in jackets, knit caps and mittens, but lacked the breath-stealing bite of Maine in the winter.

Emma watched her son surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. Next to her, Henry radiated jittery energy, a trembling mix of nervousness and excitement that left him unable to sit still. He bounced up and down in his seat, whipping his phone out of his pocket every ten seconds to check the time.

“Are you sure he’s coming?” he asked for the fourth time.

Emma smiled tolerantly down at him. “He’ll be here, kiddo. He’s got five more minutes. He’s not gonna flake out.”

A memory came to her, unbidden, of a cold January night in Boston nearly eleven years ago. Of a positive pregnancy test, and a box full of stolen watches. A squad car flashing its blue and red lights, and a sternly sympathetic officer informing her that her boyfriend had called in a tip and sold her out. 

She shook her head to dispel the memory, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Yeah, Neal was exactly the type to flake out. She just had to hope that he’d changed over the past ten-ish years.

“Hey! Hope I’m not late.” Neal jogged up to the two of them, his breath puffing white plumes of steam. 

Emma checked the time. “Nope, right on time with three whole minutes to spare.”

“Well, I aim to impress,” he said with his usual goofy grin. He was dressed much more casually than the other day. Instead of an ill-fitting suit, he wore jeans, sneakers and a winter coat with a hooded sweatshirt underneath. He abruptly turned his attention to their son. “Hey, you must be Henry. Your mom’s told me a lot about you.”

Henry squirmed a bit in his seat. “Yeah. I guess I’ve heard about you, too.” He glanced uncertainly between his two parents. Standing up, he held a hand out just as Neal opened his arms for a hug. With some awkward stammering and shuffling of the feet, Henry opened his arms for a hug while Neal extended a hand for a handshake. Emma covered her mouth to stifle a snicker at their awkward antics. “Um…”

“Uh…”

Coming to a decision, Neal held out a fist, knuckles first. Henry bumped fists with his dad with a giggle. “So Mom told me you guys have something planned, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

Neal glanced over at Emma and nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I ran a few ideas by your mom, and she said this would be right up your alley. You like surprises?”

Henry shrugged, his eyes wary. “I like good surprises,” he said.

Emma winced at that. Before last summer, Henry would have said that he  _ loved _ surprises. Before then, surprises always came in the form of a “just because” gift, or a birthday party, or a last minute outing doing something fun. Now he knew that being surprised with something could mean being caught off-guard and unable to speak up for yourself.

That was Emma’s fault. She’d taught him that. The world would’ve taught him that lesson eventually, but he shouldn’t have had to learn it from his mom.

If Neal noticed Henry’s caution, he didn’t comment on it. “Well, I think this’ll be a pretty cool surprise. And hey - if you don’t like it, we can always do something else. Sound good?”

“Yeah!”

“Cool. Then follow me.”

And with that, Neal led the way down the street, weaving his way around the various other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Emma followed as best she could, dragging Henry by the hand behind her. Neal glanced over his shoulder, realizing that he was leaving them behind, and altered his stride accordingly. 

Soon they arrived at a building with a blinking neon sign. “Litwak’s Arcade,” Henry read aloud. He looked questioningly at Neal. “What’s an arcade?”

Neal’s jaw dropped. “What’s an  _ arcade? _ ” he repeated incredulously. A boyish, eager grin spread on his face, making him look like a kid in a candy shop, and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Oh yeah, we picked the right place,” he muttered, hurrying them inside.

The place was loud, in both an audible and visible sense. The whole place was jammed with arcade cabinets containing a variety of video games: racing games, fighting simulators, beat ‘em ups, and “dancing” games that consisted mostly of stomping on arrow buttons on a raised platform. There were the classic games that spit out tickets to be traded for cheap prizes: whack-a-mole, skee-ball, and a light-up roulette wheel. Near the back of the store, a blinking sign advertising laser tag pointed up a dimly lit stairwell. Lights flashed, music blared, and children and adults alike shouted and laughed over the din.

Emma watched as Henry’s face lit up, provoking a grin of her own. “This is… whoa!” he cried, looking over his shoulder at both her and Neal. “I’ve never seen so many games in one place! Can we play any of them?” He bounced eagerly on his heels. He couldn’t be more prepped for takeoff if he had rockets strapped to his shoes.

She placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Hang on there, kid,” she advised.

Neal nodded in agreement. “We need to get tokens first.” He jerked his head toward the service desk. “I’ll go take care of that. Em, why don’t you two take a look around, see what you wanna do first?”

Emma smiled gratefully at her ex as he headed to the counter. Partly because he was covering the expense of the games, yes. Mostly, though, she was thankful that he wasn’t swooping in and taking charge of the night. He’d obviously been here before, and was familiar enough with the place to know where everything was. It would’ve been so easy for him to take Henry under his wing and show him the ropes, leaving Emma in the dust. But he wasn’t trying to do that. It seemed like he wanted both of them to have a good time.

Maybe he really wasn’t the thoughtless, selfish kid he’d been when they were younger.

“C’mon, kiddo,” she said, guiding Henry to the nearest machine. “Why don’t we see what kind of stuff they’ve got.”

******

Belle waited gloomily at her table, twirling the stirrer in her lemon martini idly. When she’d called Tony’s to put in her reservation, she’d asked for their most private table for two, and specified that she’d probably need it for two or three hours. The hostess on the phone had assured her that that wouldn’t be a problem, as weekdays were slow for the restaurant. Belle had thought it was the perfect compromise: eating out would show the town - and more importantly, Rum - that she wasn’t afraid or ashamed to be seen with him, but the privacy of the table would keep the worst of the prying eyes off of them.

It was nearly eight o’clock, and he hadn’t shown. Clearly she’d been wrong.

She took a sip of her drink, more as an excuse to swallow the painful lump in her throat than out of any actual desire for the citrusy beverage. She hardly even registered its sharp flavor sparking across her tongue. At this point, she’d been staying out of sheer stubbornness. If this thing between her and Rum was going to fail before it even began, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be because of her. 

Still, it grew increasingly obvious with every passing minute that he wasn’t coming. Originally, she’d planned to wait until eight o’clock, and order a nice meal for herself if he didn’t show. Now, though, the thought of eating was repugnant; her stomach felt heavy and leaden, like she’d swallowed a small boulder whole. She just wanted to go back to the cottage, change out of her dress and heels, and pretend today had never happened.

She stood up to do just that, the layers of her flirty tulle skirt fluttering around her thighs. Turning her back to the door so she didn’t have to see one more pitying look from the hostess at her stand, she plucked her coat off the back of her chair.

“Belle.”

At the sound of that familiar brogue, she froze, her heart in her throat. Turning slowly, her fingers clenched around her coat as Rum came into view. “You came,” she breathed.

“Yes.” He shifted from foot to foot, looking for all the world like he wanted nothing more than to turn and flee back to his shop.

Hoping to put him at ease, she draped her coat back over her chair before resuming her seat. He’d shown courage in coming here; the least she could do was make it a bit easier for him. With a teasing quirk of her lips, she said, “You know, you really know how to keep a girl waiting.”

He answered her smirk with a toothy grin of his own, the low light glinting off the gold cap on his tooth. Fumbling in the pocket of his waistcoat, he pulled out a gold pocket watch on a chain. “I still have… three minutes left,” he said, lowering himself carefully into the other chair. He plucked the laminated wine menu from its holder, perusing it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Belle released the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. With his tendency to go hot and cold with her, depending on whether anyone else was around, she’d half expected him to leave. But it looked like he was settling in. “I’m really glad you came,” she said, laying a hand on top of his.

He shifted his hand under hers, entwining their fingers together. “As am I,” he murmured.

Just then, a waitress approached them to take their order. Her eyes traveled slowly from Belle, to Rum, to their clasped hands, missing absolutely nothing. Rum’s hand twitched under hers, and for a moment Belle feared that he’d pull away from her again. Uneasy brown eyes met sedate blue, and his hand relaxed.

Belle had known what she wanted to eat for the past hour, and Rum’s arrival had revived her appetite. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that he’d been here before, because he knew exactly what he wanted to order without so much as glancing at the menu. 

As soon as the waitress left to put their order in, Belle feigned an air of nonchalance. “So I spent a lot of time in town today,” she said, “and it seems I’ve gained some notoriety since I got here.”

To his credit, Rum didn’t play dumb. “I mentioned that people in small towns tend to talk,” he reminded her, staring so intently at his water glass that she expected it to boil over at any moment. “Mrs. Nolan, whom you met this morning, rather exemplifies that rule. I’ve no doubt that within an hour of meeting you, she’d told half the town of your… association with me.”

“I got the same impression,” Belle agreed. “I just don’t understand why our  _ association _ is a problem.”

His face took on a pinched look - not unlike the closed off expression he got when he was freezing her out, but this look was almost pained. “It’s a long story, and doesn’t paint me in the most flattering light,” he cautioned her.

She smiled at him tolerantly, squeezing his fingers with her own. “Rum, I’m not looking for you to spill all of your deepest, darkest secrets on the second date,” she assured him. “But I like you. I like being with you, and I’d love to see where things could go between us.” A soft smile settled on his features at that, his eyes lighting up with something akin to hope. “But I can’t do that if you push me away any time it’s not just the two of us.” Her lips quirked. “I don’t need the whole story yet. Just give me the Cliff Notes for now.”

“The Cliff Notes,” he repeated with a nod, looking faintly ill. “Okay.” 

He pulled his hand from hers so he could lean back in his seat. Belle allowed the distance between them, understanding that this was probably a difficult thing for him to talk about. While he gathered his thoughts, the waitress returned with their drinks: another lemon martini for her, and a scotch for him. When she left with assurances that their meals would be out shortly, he spoke.

“You’ve no doubt gathered from my accent that I’m from Scotland,” he began. She nodded; despite years in America softening it, she’d deduced the country of his birth from the start. “I lived there until I was thirty-one. When I was twenty-two, going to law school, I met my future wife, Milah.” He spat the name out as though speaking it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “We met at the beginning of summer hols, and were married by the time classes resumed in autumn.”

Belle did her best to ignore the stab of jealousy she felt at that. He clearly wasn’t married now, and it had been a long time ago. “Sounds like it was a whirlwind romance,” she commented mildly.

He scoffed. “Hardly,” he muttered. “We were young and stupid and fancied ourselves in love, and not as careful as we should have been. Milah fell pregnant, and our families pressured us to get married. So we did.” He fell silent, taking a gulp of his scotch. “At first, we were happy enough. Milah was going to stay home with the baby, and I was going to work to support the three of us.

“Then… I had my accident,” he continued, tapping the side of his right shoe with his cane. “The damage was extensive, and all of our plans were thrown out the window. Milah had to work two jobs and take care of our son while I recovered in the hospital. By the time I got out…” He swallowed. “We’ll just say that we both stayed in a miserable marriage for eight years. Finally one day I couldn’t do it anymore. I served Milah with divorce papers. The ensuing custody battle got ugly, but I eventually won sole custody. When the divorce was finalized, I moved my son and I here for a fresh start.” He gave a ragged sigh, his fingers fidgeting where they lay on the table. “I tell you all of this so you can understand where I was, mentally, when I came here.”

Belle couldn’t take it anymore. With every word of his tale, Rum hunched a little more in on himself, weighed down by his own misery. She didn’t want to stop him from speaking, but if she could bring a little bit of light back to the conversation, it might make the rest easier. “What’s his name?” she interrupted.

Rum blinked. “What?”

“Your son. What’s his name?”

He flinched, his teeth bared in a pained grimace. Belatedly, Belle remembered his words the other night.  _ No family. _ Something had happened to his son. His ex-wife had managed to take custody, or… or maybe he’d died. She burned with curiosity, but resisted asking. He would tell her if and when he was ready. To insist on more than he was able to give would only hurt him.

“Baeden,” he said in a voice little more than a whisper. “My Bae.” There was so much love and loss poured into those syllables that Belle’s heart ached with it. “I was… an angry man when I came here,” he admitted. “I did heartless, ruthless things to secure a place for us. To secure Bae’s future. To keep him with me. And in the end, I failed.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and for a moment Belle thought he might be close to tears. But if he was, he hid it well; when his eyes met hers, they were clear and calm. “After I lost my son, all I had left was the reputation I’d cultivated here. The cruel landlord. The beast of Storybrooke. I clung to it with both hands for a long time. It’s been years since anyone has looked at me and seen anything else.” His eyes burned into hers across the table. “That is what you’re choosing to associate with. In being seen with me, you’re opening yourself up to the worst of Storybrooke’s gossip. They’ll say that you’re every bit the monster I am, or that you’re a gold digger, or any number of other outlandish rumors. I’d hoped, in distancing myself from you, to spare you that.”

Belle could imagine the sorts of things a desperate man would do to keep his son. Especially a desperate man who managed to put himself in a place of power over others. But she hadn’t seen any hint of that man in Rum. He brooked no nonsense when it came to collecting on rent, sure. But a man as merciless as he claimed to have been wouldn’t have shown her this vulnerable side of himself. She could genuinely believe that he was trying to be better. 

Belle understood how difficult it could be to change when you were weighed down by the opinions of others. If people saw Rum coming and expected nothing more than their ruthless landlord Mr. Gold, they’d treat him as such. And if he was always rejected, held at arm’s length, what reason would he have to change? Without a lifeline of kindness to hold onto, how could he hope to show anyone if he wanted to do better?

She was in the perfect position to throw him that lifeline, she realized. She had never seen Mr. Gold at his worst. If she could offer Rum a safe place to show her the best of himself, maybe he’d gain the courage to show it to others.

Belle leaned forward slowly, giving him plenty of time to turn away. Far from avoiding her, Rum leaned forward to meet her halfway. Their lips met over the middle of the table in a slow, sensual kiss that sent warmth tingling through her from head to toe. Her fingers threaded through his hair, luxuriating in its softness as she gently scraped her nails against his nape. He moaned quietly into her mouth and she swallowed the sound eagerly, thirsty for every sound he made. Dimly aware that they were in public, Belle eased off the kiss, leaning her forehead against his.

“Thank you for confiding in me,” she whispered.

A quiet clearing of a throat broke the spell between them. They pulled apart to see their waitress standing just a few feet away, holding a tray with their food. She looked utterly poleaxed at the sight of Mr. Gold kissing a strange woman in public. Belle watched the girl as she laid the plates on the table and hurried off, her phone already in her hand. No doubt the rumor mill had found new material to grind. 

Rum noticed the same, judging by his wince. “There’ll be no explaining that away,” he muttered ruefully. 

Belle rolled her eyes. “Look, it’s sweet that you’re looking out for my reputation,” she told him. “But I’m an adult. I can handle small town gossip, and I can decide for myself whom I want to ‘associate’ with. Okay?”

The look that Rum gave her was stunned, and somewhat disbelieving - like she was some rare creature he’d never seen before. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Picking up her fork, she speared a bit of food. “Now, let’s eat. I’ve got three of these martinis in me, and could really use something in my stomach.”

******

Emma peeked in on Henry where he lay in his darkened bedroom. His breathing had taken on the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Not surprising; he’d been a spinning top of boundless energy since they arrived at the arcade, dragging Emma and Neal from game to game. First he’d been eager to try Laser Tag. Emma had acquitted herself well; years of firearms training had honed her aim, and taught her how to judiciously use cover to her best advantage. From there, Neal had shown Henry how to play “classic” games from well before he was born. Unsurprisingly, he picked them up with ludicrous speed, learning the basics within minutes. They’d finished the night playing one of those silly dancing games, all three of them flailing around on the platforms with a complete absence of dignity or grace. Emma suspected that Henry had gotten some pictures or video of her nearly falling on her butt; she’d have to have a talk with him tomorrow about just how many decades he’d be grounded for if those ever saw the light of day.

Once Henry had burned off most of his energy, Neal had taken them to “the best pizza joint in New York.” Emma wasn’t so sure about that. The slices were enormous, with just the right amounts of sauce, cheese, and greasy pepperoni, but at the end of the day, pizza was pizza. Even at its worst, pizza was still pretty good, and that’s exactly what this pizza was: pretty good.

After eating, Henry’s head had started nodding, so Emma decided to call it a night. She’d invited Neal up for a drink while Henry got ready for bed; he should be waiting in the living room.

Sure enough, there he was, sprawled out on one end of the couch, sipping from a brown beer bottle. Another bottle waited for her on the coffee table. Picking it up and taking a swig of the cold, sudsy brew, Emma settled herself on the armchair across from him.

“Man, you weren’t kidding,” he told her. “Henry’s a pretty cool kid. Did you see how quick he picked up that fighting game? I had to bust out my best moves just to keep up!”

“I told you,” she reminded him smugly, “he’s freakishly good at games. I’ve got no clue where he gets it from.” She gestured toward Belle’s office - the one room she’d deemed off-limits to Henry. “I got him some new board games for Christmas. He’ll probably be beating the stuffing out of me in all of them by the time we head home next week.”

“Christmas. Right.” He rubbed the back of his head uneasily. “Listen, Em, would it be okay if I got him a video game or two for Christmas?”

Emma hesitated. Generally, she liked to do the research on video games before she let Henry play. But Neal seemed to know his stuff about these things. “As long as there’s no sex, and minimal blood and swearing,” she allowed. “Kid’s games, not teen and adult games. Nothing for that new gaming system that just came out; he doesn’t have that yet.”

He nodded eagerly. “Yeah, of course.” He took another swig of his beer. “I can drop ‘em off in the next day or two, and he can open ‘em on Christmas.”

Picking at the label on her beer bottle, Emma considered. Christmas had always been a two-person affair in the Swan household, ever since Henry was born. They had their own little traditions, their own rhythm to the day. A third person might mess with the vibe. 

But Neal was trying, and that was more than she’d really expected from him. If he could do his best to do right by Henry, then so could she.

“You could drop by yourself on Christmas, if you want,” she offered. “We don’t do much - just open presents and have dinner - but you’re welcome. But, if it’ll mess things up with your girlfriend, don’t feel pressured.”

His shoulders slumped at that. “Nah,” he said, “Tamara made last-minute plans to go see her family in Albany, so I’m flying solo this year. I think she’s still upset about the whole ‘surprise kid’ thing. Normally I’d go annoy Belle on Christmas, but…” he gestured vaguely.

She smiled wanly at him. Honestly, she’d been sort of hoping he wouldn’t take her up on her offer. She’d been counting on him wanting to spend time with his girlfriend, rather than his ex and his near-stranger of a son. But the offer was out there, and she wasn’t going to take it back.

As if by some unspoken signal, they both lapsed into silence, broken only by the occasional gulp of beer. The quiet between them wasn’t quite companionable, but it wasn’t awkward, either. It just… was. Emma continued peeling at the beer label until it came off in her hands, just barely resisting the urge to start shredding it. 

Eventually they both finished their drinks at the same time, swallowing the foamy dregs. Putting his hands on his knees, Neal pushed himself to his feet. “Well, I’d better be headed home,” he said. “But, uh, I just wanted to say thanks for tonight. It was really cool getting to meet Henry. Think we could do it again soon?”

Emma nodded. “I was thinking of taking him ice skating in a couple days. You can come with, if you want.” She stood up, and they slowly made their way toward the front door.

Neal’s nose wrinkled adorably at that. “Skating, huh?” he muttered. “My balance is pretty bad on my own two feet. I doubt sticking blades under ‘em and shoving me out on ice will improve things.”

“Well, the offer’s open.”

“I appreciate it.” He stopped short at the door. “Listen, Em, I’ve been thinking, and… I just wanted to say that there’s no hard feelings about the watches.”

Emma’s blood turned to ice in her veins. About five seconds later, it flash-boiled. “What the hell do you mean, there’s  _ no hard feelings? _ ” she snarled.

He rubbed at the back of his head. “I mean, I know I asked you to fetch that box of stolen watches for me all those years ago, and that’s when things sort of went to shit between us. I just wanted to say, I don’t blame you anymore for how things went down.”

Emma kept her voice down with a herculean effort. All she wanted to do was scream and rage at Neal for his audacity. How dare he? How  _ dare _ he act like it was her fault he’d sold her out, and forgiving her for that was somehow magnanimous?

“Listen, you prick,” she snapped, “I don’t know where you get off telling me that there’s  _ no hard feelings _ , but you don’t have the right to make that decision. That’s  _ my _ call.”

He raised his hands defensively. “Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m just trying to say, if those watches put a warm roof over your heads and food in your stomachs, then I’m cool with how things turned out.”

“Cool with it?” she demanded. “ _ Cool with it? _ Listen, maybe you’ve never been to juvie, but let me tell you: it’s not a warm, fuzzy place where a pregnant teen just gets to kick up her feet and relax. So don’t you dare act like you were doing me a favor by tipping off the cops.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Tipping off the cops? Juvie? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the shitty way you dumped me, you jackass!”

“Emma.” Her mouth was already open to continue her tirade, but she shut it at the confused, hurt look on his face. “I didn’t call the cops on you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m  _ not! _ ” He started pacing back and forth in front of the door, raking his fingers through his messy black hair. “I found a buyer for the watches, and sent you a message telling you where and when to meet up. You never showed. I always thought you took the watches and ran.” He glanced at her uncertainly. “But… you’re saying you didn’t?”

Emma felt like the floor had fallen out from under her. Again. Reaching out blindly with one hand, she steadied herself against the wall before her legs went and did something embarrassing like buckling under her. “Of course not,” she said. “That money was going to get us to Tallahassee. You and I were gonna buy a place, and go to Disney World, and do a bunch of ridiculous crap until we each starred in our own Florida Man headline. Why the hell would I jeopardize that?”

Neal staggered back a step. “So that means that you… that we…” His skin, normally a vibrant tan, took on a sickly, grayish tinge. She could sympathize; her stomach felt like it was about to purge the greasy pizza they’d just eaten. “I… I’ve gotta go. Figure things out.” He hurried out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

Emma took a deep, shaky breath, swallowing hard to try to settle her roiling stomach. Was Neal serious? Had there been some sort of… of misunderstanding between them? It couldn’t be possible. She’d been arrested. The cops had told her that Neal sold her out. That hadn’t been a misunderstanding.

She rubbed tiredly at her face. God. The night had been going so well. She was starting to put her anger and hurt behind her, for Henry’s sake. Now it was all being dragged back to the surface. 

Heading to the kitchen, she pulled open the fridge and grabbed herself another beer, popping the top off. It wasn’t the best thing for her unsettled stomach, but it was the only remedy for the unwelcome thoughts racing around her head. She took a long, gulping pull at the bottle, hoping the booze would drown out her decade-old anger and heartbreak long enough to let her get some sleep.

******

Belle lay under the brightly colored, patchwork quilt in her - or Emma’s - bed, her head resting on Rum’s bare shoulder. Her fingers drew idle patterns on his chest while he snored lightly in his sated doze.

It seemed that their talk over dinner had dispelled some of his reticence with her; it had taken very little convincing to get him to come back to her place for an encore of the other night. The fluttering layers of her short tulle skirt had apparently done their job in showing off her legs. As soon as they’d gotten to the bedroom, Rum had wasted no time in pushing her down onto the bed and raining soft, sucking kisses up her calves and thighs. Just when she’d begun trembling with anticipation of his mouth on her core, he’d flipped her onto her hands and knees with a growl, treating the backs of her legs to the same treatment. Flipping her skirt up and divesting her of her panties, he’d laved her bottom with kisses and licks, paying particular attention to her fading bruise, before burying his face into her from behind. Only after he brought her to a shrieking, shuddering climax did he strip the dress off of her. Eager to reciprocate, she’d helped to shuck off his layers one by one before bringing him off with her mouth, reveling in every agonized groan and ecstatic cry she pulled from him. 

She nibbled anxiously on her lower lip. When she’d clicked on Emma’s home exchange listing, she hadn’t dreamed that she’d find a fascinating, sexy, intelligent man that she’d hit it off with. She certainly hadn’t anticipated coming face to face with the best lover of her life when she’d opened the door to Emma’s landlord. And more than that, she genuinely  _ liked _ who Rum was as a person. He was witty, funny, quietly considerate, and just mysterious enough to keep things interesting. She adored the warm, soft glow of his eyes any time he looked at her, and her heart ached any time she caught a glimpse of the resigned sadness underneath. 

Even in her earliest days with Greg, she hadn’t enjoyed his company as much as she reveled in Rum’s presence. She realized, to her disquiet, that this was a man she could see herself falling for. But her time here was up in under a week and a half, at which point she’d have to make a choice: either to end things on a high note, or potentially commit herself to a long-distance relationship. After four years with Greg, she hadn’t given any thought to commitment of any kind. That didn’t exactly bode well for this thing growing between her and Rum. Could she really move so quickly with a man she’d only just met?

The press of Rum’s lips to her hair pulled her from her heavy thoughts. Tilting her head up, she captured his lips with her own, seeking entrance into his mouth with her tongue. He opened for her eagerly, letting his tongue play sensuously with her own.

After a few moments he eased off their kiss, pulling back. His lips were swollen and reddened, his hair tousled from sleep, and Belle couldn’t help thinking that there was no sexier sight on earth. 

“Can’t sleep?” he mumbled.

She shrugged. “I’m a night owl,” she said by way of explanation.

With a deep rumble in his chest, he wrapped his arms around her, flipping her onto her back before settling between her thighs. She spread for him eagerly, gasping as he nibbled on her earlobe. “Maybe we can find a way to tire you out,” he whispered in her ear, the moist warmth of his breath making her shiver.

Her giggle trailed off into a whimper as his lips roamed her throat. “I’m sure - ohhh - we can come up with something,” she moaned as she arched into him.

The future could wait. For now, she was in Rum’s arms, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midnight seems to be the time I'm most likely to enter the zone and get a chapter done. I don't know what it is. I'll slog through half a chapter for DAYS. Midnight comes, and suddenly I'm banging out several pages like it's nothing.


	7. People Are Talkin', Talkin' About People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't steal all the chapter titles from Christmas songs. *shrug*
> 
> This is being posted minutes after the clock struck twelve for New Year's. My dog is hiding in his house from the fireworks. I'm gonna submit this, post it on Tumblr real quick, and give the big baby a cuddle.

_ December 22nd _

Coming to Storybrooke for the holiday season was the best decision she’d made in a while, Belle decided, even without the blossoming romance that had landed, as if by magic, in her lap. While she missed some of the conveniences of city life, something about the placid lake view got the creative juices flowing in a way that the view from her penthouse apartment simply couldn’t hold a candle to. Some might consider the view to be dismal and gray. The sky was rather overcast, and apart from the pine trees that dotted the shoreline, all of the surrounding vegetation was gnarled and barren this time of year. But there was beauty in even the starkest landscape.

She wondered what this lake would look like in the spring, when the barren branches budded and the first blooms broke through the frozen ground. How vibrant it must look in the summer, with the trees verdant with life and the nearby berry bushes heavy with fruit. And in autumn, the view must be positively breathtaking as the leaves turned various shades of rust and ochre and crimson, the myriad colors reflected in the waters of the lake. 

A yearning to see every view this lake had to offer burned low in her belly. She pushed it away impatiently. She was leaving in eight days. There was no point in romanticizing something that couldn’t last.

She was just writing the final lines of her latest chapter when her phone buzzed. She checked the screen, answering it with a smile. “You’re lucky you called when you did. If you’d’ve called five minutes earlier, I’d’ve ignored you and forgotten to call you back.”

_ “Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” _ Neal replied, no doubt rolling his eyes.  _ “Just wanted to call and say your gifts came in the mail.” _

“And you refused to wait until Christmas, and opened them early,” she guessed, leaning back in her chair.

_ “You know it. And I’ll be drinking from this mug every time I’m stuck in meetings instead of working on the next game release, and thinking of you flipping me off.” _

She giggled. “And that’s exactly the spirit in which it was intended. So did Tamara manage to restrain herself, or did you convince her to open her gifts early, too?”

_ “Ugh.” _ He paused, and gave an aggravated sigh. Belle sat up straighter. That wasn’t the sound of mild irritation; something was really bothering him.  _ “Tamara’s not answering my calls. She went to stay with family for a few days. She didn’t take the whole Emma and Henry thing so well.” _

“So… does that mean that Emma’s son…?”

_ “He’s mine,” _ he confirmed.  _ “Emma told me his birthday, and it matches up. We met up last night and I could see some of me in him. It was weird, though - kid’s a dead ringer for my dad. Y’know, minus the whole ‘raging asshole’ part. I guess some of his genes must’ve skipped a generation. Hopefully two.” _

Belle nodded in sympathy. Neal didn’t like talking about his father much. From what she gathered, the two were estranged, and had been for years. Generally, he didn’t like to talk about his life before he and Belle had met in New York while they were in college ten years ago. In fact, she hadn’t even known a thing about his parents until they’d gotten drunk after finals one year and he’d rambled about his childhood. To her shame, she couldn’t really remember most of the details he’d imparted in their drunken stupor. But she remembered the helpless rage in his voice that masked underlying hurt. There was pain there - pain and love. She just knew it.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked.

_ “I mean… I can’t exactly leave New York,” _ he said.  _ “My company’s just starting to take off. I can’t just move to the middle of nowhere and start over. Even if I wanted to, things are so messed up with me and Emma that I don’t think she’d go for the idea.” _ He gave a pained groan.  _ “And I’ve gotta meet with her in an hour to talk about our breakup, which is probably going to make things even worse. That’s actually why I called. I was hoping you could distract me.” _

“I can do that,” she agreed. Closing her laptop with a click, she shuffled into the kitchen to make tea, the two pairs of socks she was wearing not quite enough to isolate her feet from the cold floors. The view here was lovely, but she’d be lying if she said a small part of her didn’t miss her heated floors. “I’ve made a lot of progress in my next book. More than I’d made in months back home. I don’t know if it’s the fresh air, or the view, or just the quiet, but I think small town living really helps my creative process.” Once she filled the kettle and set it on the stove to heat, she settled into a chair at the kitchen table, crossing one leg over the other.

Neal groaned.  _ “Please tell me you’re not spending your whole vacation working,” _ he begged.  _ “That kinda defeats the whole purpose of a vacation.” _

“I haven’t,” she said defensively. “I went out into town yesterday to get you those gifts.”

_ “Oh yeah, that sounds really relaxing,” _ he said sarcastically.

Belle bit her lower lip, considering. Neal was her best friend; they shared nearly everything with each other. If she mentioned finding someone new, he’d be in her corner all the way. But if he disapproved of Rum, he wouldn’t hesitate to speak up. He’d done the same with Greg from the start of their relationship. The night she’d introduced them, Neal had told her in no uncertain terms that Greg wasn’t the guy for her, and the relationship wouldn’t end happily. He’d been right, of course, and present-day Belle wished that past-Belle had listened instead of insisting that Greg had hidden layers just waiting to be discovered.

If Neal has qualms about her new whatever-this-was with Rum, she wouldn’t know how to handle it.

Still, wouldn’t it be better to know, instead of wasting years on another relationship that couldn’t last?

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been on two dates since I got here,” she replied with a smugness that was only partially feigned.

_ “No shit! Who’s the lucky guy? Or guys?” _

The kettle whistled shrilly, prompting Belle to get up and pour herself a cup of tea. “Guy,” she said, adding milk and sugar and giving it a quick stir before licking the spoon clean. “He’s older, and charming in sort of a shy, reserved way. I pretty much had to spell out that I was interested in him before he even dared to make a move.”

He snorted.  _ “Sounds like he couldn’t be more different from Greg if he tried.” _

“Yeah,” she agreed, taking a sip of tea. “He’s well-dressed, well-read, and good in bed. Pretty much the holy trinity of what I like.”

Neal gave a scandalized gasp; Belle could picture him placing a hand dramatically on his chest.  _ “Why Belle French, you saucy minx! Are you telling me that you had your way with an older man on just the second date?” _

“First date.”

_ “Ha! You pervert. I’m so proud of you.” _ He sniffled, his voice thick with fake unshed tears.  _ “My little baby, all grown up and preying on older guys with her feminine wiles.” _

“Oh, shut up. I’m two years older than you,” she groused without any heat. Honestly, Neal cracking stupid jokes was a good sign. He’d been dead serious the night he’d met Greg, the change so unlike him that she’d been worried about him. If he was willing to kid around about the age difference, then it didn’t matter to him. 

_ “So where is Mr. Snappy Dresser Sex God, anyway? Is he there now?” _

“No,” she sighed, “he had to go to work. I’m not sure when I’m going to see him next. We kind of left things in a weird place this morning. I can’t tell if I messed things up or not.” Her mind wandered to earlier that morning, when she’d seen him last.

_ Despite their combined efforts - pleasurable though they were - her brain had refused to quiet down and let her sleep until sometime after three. Still, in the peaceful warmth of Rum’s arms, their mingled sweat drying on her skin, and the soft, rhythmic sound of his snores in her ear, she couldn’t bring herself to mind. _

_ When Rum awoke her with a kiss to the cheek, she rolled over with a groan. “You don’t have to get up,” he murmured in her ear. “I can see myself out. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to work.” The backs of his fingers caressed, feather-light, over her cheek. _

_ Her hand darted out to grab his wrist, keeping his hand exactly where it was. “Don’t go,” she groaned into her pillow. “Stay. Come back to bed.” She turned her head slightly to one side so she could peek at him with one bleary eye. He was already wearing his trousers, his blue cotton shirt draped over his forearm. _

_ The smile that spread across his face was so warmly gratified that for a moment, she thought she’d convinced him. “I’d like nothing more, sweetheart, but Christmas is in a few days. I need to open the shop.” He made a halfhearted effort to free himself from her clutches, which she ignored, trying to tug him back down to bed with her. _

_ Sweetheart. He’d called her sweetheart. Warmth spread through her chest, sticky sweet like melted caramel while a thrilled giggle bubbled past her lips. _

_ “I’ll make it worth your while,” she wheedled, wiggling her hips enticingly under the covers. The movement caught his attention, his smile taking a decidedly wicked cast. Sensing that she was close to convincing him, she gave one last push. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve Eve. The streets will be mobbed with last-minute shoppers. You can open up then.” _

_ Whatever she’d said, it must have been exactly the wrong thing. His smile faltered, his hand going limp in hers. His eyes, instead of going remote like she half-expected, looked absolutely miserable. Understanding that the moment between them was lost, she reluctantly let him go, sitting up and holding the quilt up to cover herself. _

_ “I can’t do that,” he said. His mouth opened, as though he wanted to say more, and closed with a sigh. _

_ Belle took pity on him. She’d asked a lot of him last night. It couldn’t be easy letting someone in after shutting out everyone around him for so many years. To demand more of him would be unfair. _

_ “Okay,” she said simply. “Tea?” _

_ “Please.” _

_ Tea with Rum was a morning ritual she could see herself getting used to, despite the early hour. He didn’t try to push for conversation while she was still waking up, but the quiet between them wasn’t strained or awkward. Simply being in each other’s company was its own comfort. Both were in a state of undress while still being fully covered - her in her bathrobe, him just in shirtsleeves and trousers (not wrinkled this time; they’d had the sense to drape his suit over the back of a chair last night).  _

_ All too soon they finished, and she was walking Rum to the door. As he shrugged into his waistcoat and jacket, she nibbled her lip in indecision. It was obvious to her that she’d pushed him too far this morning. He’d been relaxed and content, and if she read him correctly, ready to close up his shop for the day and stay in bed with her, until something she’d said had soured things. _

_ Belle swallowed a wave of frustration. She understood that there was a lot about his past that he hadn’t divulged. Things he wasn’t proud of, and things that hurt him. Of course he hadn’t told her everything last night. They weren’t there yet; they’d just met a few days ago. But how could she be expected not to say the wrong things when she didn’t know what those things were? She felt like she’d been dropped unexpectedly in the middle of an obstacle course, blindfolded, and told to take it at a run. In any other circumstance she would take her time and feel her way around before proceeding. But she didn’t have the luxury of time. Her only options were to quit while she was ahead, or forge blindly ahead and hope she didn’t trip too badly. _

_ "Belle.” Rum’s warm palm cradled her jaw, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone. “This time of year is… difficult for me. I’d rather you didn’t think I’m still shutting you out. I just…” _

_ “I understand.” That was an overstatement. She didn’t understand; that was the point. But he was trying, and that was all she could fairly ask for. “Tell you what: give me a goodbye kiss, and there’ll be no hard feelings. Deal?” _

_ “Deal.” _

_ “Good.” Her hands came up to grip his lapels, tugging him forward until his long nose brushed against hers. “Make it a good one.” _

_ He chuckled, his warm breath fanning over her lips. She inhaled, greedily stealing his breath for her own. “Demanding, aren’t you?” _

Belle’s mind stuttered to a halt as she remembered the hot, lingering kiss he’d given her that left her hands fisting in his jacket as she resisted the urge to climb him like a tree. They’d parted only reluctantly, and she’d watched through the window in dazed silence as he backed out of the driveway.

_ “Hello? Earth to Belle!” _

She started. She’d been so preoccupied reminiscing about the morning that she’d forgotten she was on the phone. “What? Oh! Sorry, Neal. What did you say?”

_ "I said, is he into you? I mean, you’re obviously pretty into him. But what about him?” _

Belle considered. Rum was very reserved, that was for sure. At the slightest provocation he was liable to retreat behind a veneer of cold, unfeeling indifference, one that the residents of Storybrooke seemed all too familiar with. But she’d seen glimpses of the man underneath, and suspected that those walls were there to hide just how deeply he  _ did _ feel.

“I’m pretty sure he is,” she said. “He… he keeps people at arm's length. I think he wants to let me in, but doesn’t know how.” 

_ “Huh. Not sure what to tell you there,” _ Neal admitted.  _ “Normally I’d say be patient and let him come around, but if he’s as shy as you say, that might take a while. Best idea I’ve got is to put on something hot, show up at his place, and screw his brains out ‘til he’s a puddle of goo on the floor.” _

“Neal!”

_ “What? That’s peak romance right there!” _

“You would say that,” she said with a roll of her eyes. She refused to admit to him how appealing the idea was. He’d be insufferable if she did.

_ “You love it. Anyway, I’ve gotta get going. Let me know how things go with your manther.” _

“Ugh. Don’t call him that.”

_ “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Talk to you later.” _

“Bye.”

Belle finished the last of her tea, grimacing at the flavor of the stone-cold drink. Running her forefinger over her upper lip, she considered her options. Rum said that this time of year was hard for him. It must be the loneliness that came from losing his son, she decided. Surely her company would provide him some comfort and solace.

But… maybe not tonight. She’d pushed him far enough for one day. She’d give him a day to recover. That would give her time to get some more writing in, and to run a quick errand in town.

She’d also have plenty of time to mull over the wisdom of her friend’s advice.

******

“Okay, kiddo, I’ve gotta get going. I shouldn’t be gone more than two or three hours.” Emma fussed briefly in front of the mirror: smoothing a wrinkle out of her gray turtleneck, running her finger over her eyebrows, giving her ponytail one final tightening tug. Anything to distract her from the reason she was going out to dinner without her son.

She’d gotten an ominously-worded text from Neal earlier:  _ Hey. I found out some things about that day with the watches that I think you need to know. Can we meet up for dinner? _ That was just about the last thing in the world she wanted to do… but it needed to be done. Filled with nervous, nauseous energy, Emma had managed, with minimal effort, to convince Henry to play one of his video games. She’d burned off the worst of her agitation in Belle’s home gym. The equipment’s settings were all customized for an absolute giant. Judging by the petite dresses in Belle’s bedroom closet, this room was mostly used by her ex. Emma doubted Belle would mind if she changed the settings, so she’d made herself at home, starting with a brisk run on the treadmill. From there she’d done some strength training, working out all of the major muscle groups. She’d finished by beating the absolute snot out of the punching bag. The workout had left her sweaty, her muscles aching in that sweet, burny way she’d always loved. She’d jumped in the shower to wash away the worst of the grime, and by the time she’d gotten out, it was time to go.

“Okay, mom.” Henry glanced up from his handheld game, giving her a distracted smile before gluing his eyes back on the screen.

“There’s soup and stuff for grilled cheese in the kitchen.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

Had she? She couldn’t even remember. “Are you sure you know how to use the stove? Maybe I should--”

_ “Mom.” _ Pausing his game, he gave her a level look - the look of a kid very patiently explaining something painfully obvious to an adult. “I know how to use the stove. I remember all the rules. Don’t use high heat, keep an eye on it the whole time, and triple check to make sure I turned it off when I’m done.”

She paused. It was true - she’d taught him those rules the first time she’d left him alone without a sitter to go on a date with Killian. It had been far from the last time, and as far as she knew he’d had no mishaps. Any time she’d come home late at night, Henry had been safely tucked into bed, well-fed and perfectly safe. Tonight would be no different.

Still, she had to cover all her bases. “You know, I don’t have to go out. We could stay in, or--”

“Mom!” Henry put his game down with more force than was necessary. “You used to leave me alone for longer than a few hours  _ all the time _ when you were going out with Killian. I’m used to it.”

_ Oof. _ That really stung - mostly because it was true. Killian had a way of convincing her that leaving Henry alone for long periods of time was “good for a lad his age.” It hadn’t started out that way, of course; they’d leave Henry at home while they went out to pick up something to bring home for dinner. Then, Killian would need to stop back at his boat for something he’d forgotten. Of course, then the weather was simply so fine, the wind blowing just so, that he’d tempt her into a quick jaunt around the harbor. And while they were out there he’d stop, with a glint in those blue eyes of his, and make some remark about the particular way the setting sun glinted in her hair. Next thing she knew, they were dropping anchor (and trousers) for some seaside hanky-panky, further delaying their return. By the time they got home, Henry was hungry, tired, and cranky from being forced to wait so long.

Those were the early days of her relationship with Killian. As things had progressed and her protests gradually died down, it had only gotten worse.

God. It was a miracle Henry didn’t hate her.

“Well, I promise it’s not gonna be like that this time. Or ever again,” she said emphatically. “I’ll be just down the street. My phone’s on full blast with the most obnoxious ringtone imaginable. If you need me to come home, call and I’ll come running.”

Henry’s smile was hesitant, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Three hours tops, right?”

“Three hours tops.” 

Emma left reluctantly, glancing over her shoulder at Henry while she did. If she’d been hesitant about meeting up with Neal before, now she was straight-up going against her will. Honestly, if Henry hadn’t had such a good time with his dad last night, and hadn’t chattered about seeing him again before Christmas, she wouldn’t bother. The bones of the past, in her opinion, were best left buried. 

But Henry wanted a relationship with his dad. If Neal had something to say that would make coparenting with him easier, the least she could do - and most she  _ would _ do - was hear him out.

Finding the hole-in-the-wall Asian fusion restaurant was easy with the directions Neal had sent her, and soon they were tucked in a booth in the far back corner.

“Thanks for coming, Em,” Neal said tiredly.

Emma looked closer at her long-time ex. His hair stuck wildly out in all directions, as though he’d been running his hands roughly through it. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his tanned skin lacked its normal healthy glow. 

"Jeez, Neal, you look like shit.”

He snorted at that. “Thanks. You always did know how to make me feel better.” He rubbed at his cheeks with both hands. “I had to stay up late last night to make a call to Phuket. After that, I kind of had a lot to think about, so I didn’t really sleep.”

“Uh…” Emma glanced between Neal and her menu, as though either had answers to the obvious question. No luck. “Who, or what, is Phuket?”

“It’s a city in Thailand,” he explained.

Well, that clarified… nothing. She said so.

He shifted restlessly in his seat. “Do you remember--”

Before he could finish the question, a waiter interrupted them to take their order. Neal ordered pad thai, while Emma went for classic sweet and sour chicken. As soon as the waiter left, they turned back to each other.

“Do you remember my friend August?”

August? What the hell kind of name was August? “Not even a little bit,” she said, taking a sip of her soda. She’d kill for something stronger, but booze was probably the last thing she needed just now.

“He crashed with us a few times, helped us with a few of our scams, remember?” At Emma’s blank look, he frowned. “Uh… let’s see… He was kind of tall. Black hair, blue eyes. Used to talk about wanting to be a writer?”

Come to think of it, that sounded vaguely familiar. If she really thought back, she could almost remember his face, his harebrained plans, his hardcore partying, and… “Wait. The dork who carried a typewriter in a box everywhere he went? Acted like it was some big mystery to get people to ask him about it?”

The laugh that burst from Neal’s mouth seemed to surprise him. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s been travelling the world for the past few years, trying to, I dunno, find himself or something. He spent some time studying under some guru - some guy who calls himself the Dragon.”

“O...kay…” Emma sighed impatiently. “Look, is there a point to this? I’ve got a kid waiting for me, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, I’m getting there.” He took a swallow of his water and continued. “I did a lot of thinking last night after I left, and I remembered that August was crashing with us for a few days, before you went to go get the watches from that locker. I figured maybe he’d remember something you and I didn’t, so I gave him a call.”

“And?”

Neal slowly spun his plastic water cup in his hands, thumbing at a bead of condensation. “And… I guess he saw your pregnancy test in the trash.”

Emma screwed her face, thinking back with an effort. Eleven years was a long time ago, and the memories were blurry and vague at best. She remembered… sushi. She and Neal had managed to get a decent amount of cash in their latest scam, and decided to splurge on sushi to celebrate their one-year anniversary. She’d spent the next few days puking her brains out… that’s right. While wanting to throttle Neal’s friend for the constant  _ clak-clak-clak-clak-clak ting! zzzzzzip  _ of that goddamn typewriter.

“It was that bad case of food poisoning, after we got sushi from that little Asian Bistro place,” she said, staring at the plastic menu holder with its sugar packets and tiny bottle of soy sauce. “You didn’t get sick, so we assumed that was because you were too much of a weenie to try sashimi.”

“And I rubbed it in your face for days,” Neal remembered. “So that wasn’t…? You were…?”

“Pregnant,” she confirmed. “My, uh, my boobs started to hurt, and that kind of gave me the first hint. I snagged a few bucks while you were out, grabbed a test. It was positive.”

“Shit.” He looked anywhere except at her. “Well, anyway, I guess that’s when August saw the pregnancy test, ‘cuz started asking a lot of questions about you.”

Emma frowned. “What kind of questions?”

Scratching the back of his head, Neal said, “I dunno, how we met, what your home life was like, if I was  _ sure _ I could trust you.” He rolled his eyes with a sigh. “ _ Apparently _ he thought you got pregnant on purpose to trap me.”

“Ha! You and what money?” Emma demanded. “You were just as broke as I was. Can’t be a gold digger if there’s no gold to dig up.”

The waiter chose just then to drop off their food, his lips pressed in a thin line to hold back a snicker at Emma’s words. Without further ado, she and Neal both picked up their forks.

“Yeah, I didn’t even realize what he was doing,” he admitted, squeezing a lime over his noodles and taking a bite. “Honestly, I thought he was into you, and just being  _ really _ obvious about it. So when I mentioned the watches to him, and how it was too risky for me to get them myself…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to get you involved, but August kept talking up how easy it’d be for you to do it.”

Emma swallowed her bite of chicken too fast, taking a quick swig of soda to wash it down. “What do you mean, you didn’t want me involved? You were the one who brought it up!”

“No,  _ August _ brought it up,” he corrected. “You were talking about how we’d need more money for the future… which, in hindsight, should’ve been a clue… and he made this big deal about how  _ if only _ there was somebody who could help us get that  _ big secret stash _ that would solve all our problems. You asked what he was talking about, so I had to tell you.”

“And I volunteered to go,” she recalled. “You were eighteen. If you’d gotten caught, it would’ve been a felony. I was still seventeen, so there was a chance I’d just go to juvie.” Which was exactly what had happened. She’d gone into it knowing the risks, but hadn’t thought she’d be double-crossed.

“I found a buyer,” he continued, “and August said he’d tell you to meet me by the train tracks at midnight. He was the one who said we shouldn’t use cell phones, in case one of us got caught.”

“He told me to meet up at the convenience store down the street. I hung around there for nearly an hour in the cold, waiting for you. Then the cops showed up, told me my boyfriend called in a tip, and arrested me.”

“That was August.” 

She snorted. “Yeah, I gathered. I mean, not at the time, but… now. It makes sense.”

His earnest brown eyes met hers. “I swear, Em, I had no idea. Really. August made it sound like you took the watches and ran. With the way you were talking about needing more money…”

“I get it,” she sighed, poking listlessly at her food with her fork. “Hell, all these years I thought you set me up for some unknown reason. What I don’t get is, why did he come clean to you after all this time?”

“Something about that guru he studied under,” Neal replied. “I guess  _ the Dragon _ encourages honesty and selflessness, or whatever. I don’t think he’s exactly taking the lesson to heart, though. August has my number and my email. He could’ve said something all this time, but he waited until I confronted him about it.”

Emma’s mind reeled with all the information she’d been given. This was… this was a lot to take in, with far-reaching implications she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Pressing her lips together against the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she pushed her plate away. “I think I’ve lost my appetite,” she admitted.

“Me, too,” he agreed. “Tell you what: we’ll get some boxes for the leftovers, and I’ll walk you back to the building. Sound good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

******

The staring was getting  _ really _ old.

Really, Belle thought as she ducked into the clothing store, life in Storybrooke must be  _ very _ boring if Mr. Gold’s love life was the subject of so much open speculation, no matter what sort of reputation he had. The looks she got ranged from curious, to wary, to downright pitying. Each person she caught staring was very careful to become absorbed elsewhere as soon as she caught their eye. 

Belle quashed the urge to confront them with an effort. Personally, she didn’t give a damn what any of these people thought of her. It wasn’t the first time someone thought her strange, eccentric, or downright odd, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. As long as nobody got confrontational or belligerent, she was content to live and let live.

That resolution faltered as she browsed the store’s wares, hyper-aware of one set of eyes in particular. A woman in an ankle-length skirt, blue cardigan, and white blouse with a peter pan neckline stared at her openly, her mouth curled downward in a moue of disapproval. Her chocolate brown hair was pulled into a chignon low at her nape.

Something about this woman’s stare just rubbed Belle the wrong way. Maybe it was the judgmental cast of her gaze. Or perhaps it was the fact that unlike the rest of the town, she didn’t at least feign enough politeness to look away when Belle noticed her staring. Whatever it was, Belle couldn’t help walking up to the woman, extending a hand, and offering an overly friendly greeting. “Hi! I’m Belle French. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

The woman hesitated, and gingerly took Belle’s hand in her own. “I’m Mother Superior of the Sisters of Saint Meissa,” she said.

Belle eyed the woman uncertainly. Her knowledge of nuns was, unfortunately, next to nothing. She honestly had no idea if this woman was withholding her name out of some misguided spite, or if her order or title kept her from giving it freely. Best to give the woman the benefit of the doubt… in a way. “Nice to meet you. I, ah, couldn’t help noticing that I seem to be coming under a lot of scrutiny over the past few days. I was hoping you could help me figure out what the problem is.”

“I don’t think it’s my place to say,” Mother Superior demurred, her lips pursed.

Oh no, Belle wasn’t letting her off that easily. “Please, humor me.”

The older woman hesitated, and Belle knew she’d snared her. Refusing a rudely-worded, belligerent demand was easy. Declining the innocent request of someone who had been nothing but polite was more complicated, especially if one was worried about appearances. 

“Very well,” she conceded with poorly concealed reluctance. “Mr. Gold owns nearly the entire town, including the convent where my sisters and I reside and worship. In his twenty years here, his business practices are unreasonably strict. Anyone in town would agree. Further, he has a misplaced grudge against my sisters and myself, and tries to evict us whenever the opportunity presents itself.”

Interesting. Honestly, none of this was news to Belle. When Rum had told her about using the town to secure a future for his son, she’d assumed that he was somehow alluding to his position as both landlord and money lender. And given his reaction the night they’d met, when he’d thought that Emma was refusing to pay her rent on time, she could certainly see why the town wasn’t falling over themselves to befriend him. 

But she also hadn’t missed Mother Superior’s wording. “Whenever the opportunity presents itself,” meaning, “whenever we’re short on rent.” Interesting how easy it was to shift the blame with a judicious use of the passive voice.

“That must be difficult to deal with,” she replied with as much sympathy as she could muster, “but I’m not sure what it has to do with me.”

Mother Superior’s look of surprise wasn’t as convincing as it could have been. “Well, nothing, I suppose. But the town has noticed how much time you spend with Mr. Gold. You know how the saying goes. ‘You are the company you keep.’”

Belle bit back a smug grin. In her presence, Rum had been witty, charming, and shyly considerate. There was a compliment to her in there, somewhere.

“Meaning the town expects me to, what, set up camp here as a writer and charge fifty dollars per word?” She chuckled.

“I suppose we’re all just waiting to see what you’ll do.”

Belle frowned. “‘Do?’ Do with what?”

“Why, with your position in Mr. Gold’s confidence, of course,” Mother Superior said, as though the answer were obvious. “In the few days you’d been here, you’re closer to him than anyone else has gotten in well over a decade. You seem like a kind, caring woman. I’m sure if anyone could persuade Mr. Gold to show more compassion to his fellow man…” She let the thought hang.

Oh, this woman was  _ good _ . She could wield guilt and obligation like a knife between the ribs. Belle had no doubt that Mother Superior weaponized that to great effect when soliciting donations. 

“I guess I could talk to Mr. Gold. Maybe I could convince him to decrease rent for the town, or be more lenient with late payments…”

“That would be very kind of you.”

“...just as soon as I have a working budget from all of his tenants, including you. Preferably with bank statements,” Belle finished with a Chesire smile. 

Mother Superior was good. Belle was better.

The nun’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly. “I beg your pardon?” she finally managed.

She gave the older woman an innocent look. “Well, I assume you want me to get involved with Mr. Gold’s livelihood because of my business acumen. I’ve never been very good with numbers, but I can probably muddle through. So if you can provide me with a budget, including all sources of income and expenditures, I can work with Mr. Gold to determine whether his demands are reasonable.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, but I can’t share the convent’s financial records with a stranger. That would hardly be appropriate.”

“But asking a stranger to interfere with Mr. Gold’s business on your behalf is,” Belle said with a sagely nod. “Funny how that works.”

The nun stared hard at Belle for a full minute. She seemed to come to some decision about Belle then; with a sniff, she turned on her heel and walked out the door. 

Belle had no doubt that the rumor mill would have a field day with what had just happened. It would be interesting to see exactly what people made of her, knowing as little about her as they did. But honestly? She couldn’t bring herself to care too much. She’d proven that she valued Rum’s good opinion more than anyone else’s in town, and that was what mattered. And with that, she put the Mother Superior from her mind. She had a gift to buy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to cover December 22nd and 23rd, but I'm really going to want to give the 23rd a lot of time/pages, so it's getting split into its own chapter. And now I get to spend some time deciding whether Belle takes Neal's "show up at the guy's house in something sexy" advice. Poor guy has no idea what (or who) he's having his best friend do...


	8. The Minor Fall, the Major Lift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the longest chapter I've written to date. As it is, I cut a scene out, which I'll probably put in the next chapter.

_ December 23rd _

As Belle made her way toward the pawn shop, shivering violently and teeth chattering, she couldn’t help regretting her choice of wardrobe. The navy blue sheath dress was one she’d only dared to wear once. She’d bought it on a whim, loving the flowing lines of the off-the-shoulder straps, the sweetheart neckline, the tulip skirt that allowed glimpses of an alluring amount of inner thigh. The moment she’d tried it on, she’d done a giddy twirl in front of the mirror, feeling elegant, confident, and sexy.

All it had taken was one comment from Greg to send her back to the bedroom, returning the dress to its hanger and shoving it in the far back corner of her closet. She hadn’t touched it again until packing her bags for her trip. She’d mostly packed it as a way to thumb her nose at Greg one last time. She certainly hadn’t given any thought to actually wearing it. Not until now.

She wasn’t afraid of what Rum might think of her in this dress. He’d seen her in baggy pajamas, and he’d seen her naked. Under his warm, appreciative gaze, she knew she’d feel as beautiful as she had the first time she’d tried the dress on. 

But the damn thing didn’t do a thing against the cold! Her winter coat blocked the worst of the wind, but her legs were nude below the knee, and the strappy heels she wore offered so little protection from the elements that she might as well have gone out barefoot. But that wouldn’t be an issue soon. In seconds, she’d be ensconced in the little pawn shop, shaking off the worst of the cold. Her frigid fingers grasped the handle of the door, tugging it - 

It didn’t move. She tugged it again, feeling the resistance of the deadbolt.

A quick glance through the window showed that all of the lights were out. According to the placard on the door with the store hours, he should be there right now. Was he sick? Injured? 

“He’s not here,” a man’s voice said, causing her to jump. “He never opens on December 23rd.”

Belle whirled on her heels, a hand on her chest to slow her racing heart. There, before her, stood a man with dark blond hair and friendly blue eyes, pushing a stroller with a toddler inside. Both father and son were bundled up from head to toe against the cold. Belle recognized the man from a few days prior, when he’d interrupted the moment she and Rum were having in his shop. “It was Mr. Nolan, right?”

The handsome man chuckled with a friendly smile. “David, please. Mr. Gold is the only one around here who calls me Mr. Nolan.”

“Nice to meet you, David. I’m Belle.” His hand in his knit glove was warm in hers, causing her to shiver all the harder.

“Same to you. Listen, I was about to get this little monster a hot drink at Granny’s,” he said with a gesture to his child. “Why don’t you join me? My treat.”

Belle glanced between the man and his toddler uncertainly. David seemed friendly enough, she supposed, but she wasn’t sure exactly what to make of him. His hands were obscured by his gloves, so she couldn’t tell if he was married or not. She didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. “I don’t know…”

“Come on, you’re shivering. Consider it payback for me interrupting you the other day.”

That got her attention. So it hadn’t escaped his notice that she was involved with Mr. Gold. Not surprising; it was the talk of the town, after all. But it was also the closest anyone in town had come to showing Mr. Gold any sort of understanding, even indirectly. 

She had to see where this led.

“Okay,” she said. 

The two of them - three of them, including the toddler - hurried across the street and into the diner. While David ordered hot drinks at the counter - two hot chocolates for them, and a sippy cup of steamed milk for his child - Belle chose an empty booth. Soon the three of them were tucked into their seats, the baby propped up in a high chair. 

David pulled the three drinks out of their cardboard carrier. “One for you - both hands, buddy,” he cautioned as he handed his boy the plastic sippy cup. “One for you… and one for me.” Belle took the drink he offered, cupping her hands around the warmth of the paper cup to thaw her poor, frozen digits. “So… you and Gold, huh?”

“Yeah. You know, you’re the only person in town who’s actually come up and  _ talked _ to me about it, instead of just staring.”

David shrugged. “Well, Mr. Gold is… he’s…” He paused, seeming to grapple for the most diplomatic way to phrase his thoughts. He eventually gave up. “Gold can be a real bastard when he wants to be, which is most of the time.”

“Bas-serd,” the little boy added helpfully, taking a sip of his drink with a smack of his lips.

Groaning, David ran his fingers through his short hair. “I really hope you forget that word before we get home to Mommy, bud,” he said with a pleading tone. 

“Bas-serd! Gol’s a bas-serd!”

Beyond the counter, the elderly proprietress of the diner called, “Neal, if you keep that up, your drinks are on the house from now on.”

Pleased at the attention, the toddler bounced up and down in his seat. “Gol’s a bas-serd! Gol’s a bas-serd!”

David locked eyes with his young son. “Hey. All done.” The boy subsided with a cheeky grin, returning his attention to his drink. “Don’t encourage him, Granny. Mary Margaret’s gonna have my hide as it is.” The older woman subsided with a good-natured huff, and David returned his attention to Belle. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Belle waved off his apology. “Don’t worry about it. Kids pick up swears faster than anything else.” Honestly, both his and Granny’s reactions to baby Neal unknowingly calling Rum a bastard were illuminating. Where Granny appeared to find the whole thing hilarious, David seemed genuinely embarrassed at his son’s unwitting words.

“Look, the point I’m trying to make is, Gold can be a real… mean person,” he amended with a glance at baby Neal. He leaned forward on his elbows, lowering his voice so only Belle could hear. “But he can also be a decent guy, when it occurs to him. It’s like, I don’t know, like he doesn’t want anybody to know.”

Rum being a decent man wasn’t news to Belle. Neither was the distance he placed between himself and the rest of town. She just didn’t understand  _ why. _ “I got the same impression,” she agreed, “but I’m surprised to hear you say it. Nobody else in town seems to think so.”

“Well… I know something nobody else does,” he admitted. When Belle gestured for him to continue, he glanced anxiously around the diner. “Look, what I’m about to tell you, I haven’t told  _ anybody _ . Not even my wife. I’m telling you this ‘cuz… I dunno. I don’t think I’ve seen Gold let himself get close to anybody since he lost his kid.” With careful fingers, David brushed the dark fringe out of his son’s eyes. “And now that I’ve got a kid of my own, I can sort of understand why he’s the way he is. If I lost Neal here the way Gold lost his kid, I’d probably lose it. So if you could be good for him… that might not be a bad thing.”

Belle took a sip of her hot chocolate, the toasty beverage warming her cheeks. She wasn’t crazy about hot chocolate, but she had to admit it was a pretty good cup. “Okay.”

“Okay. So, you know how Emma’s got a son, right?”

“Henry,” Belle confirmed.

“Yup. Well, about two years ago, Henry got a bad case of pneumonia. And when I say bad, I mean  _ bad. _ High fever, delirious, barely able to breathe. He was burning up and drowning in his own fluids at the same time. He’d rave about being… trapped, surrounded by flames, things like that. Coughed himself sick, couldn’t keep food down. You get the idea.” 

Belle covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh my god,” she whispered. She swallowed the first question that came to mind: was he okay? The fact that he was staying with Emma in her apartment right now meant that he was. “What… what happened?”

“Well, Emma had him admitted to the hospital. By some miracle, Henry got better without suffering any long-term complications. But Emma was in a bad financial position after that. She’d missed a few weeks of work while Henry recovered, and insurance refused to pay the hospital bills. With just one income, she didn’t really have many options.” He took a swig of his hot chocolate before continuing. “Anyway, once Henry was better, she went to Gold for help.”

“What did he say?”

David shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t there, but I can guess. Emma said that he turned her down for a loan. Said she was a poor credit risk. And when she asked for a rent extension… well, every last person here has heard his ‘rent extension’ speech at least once. ‘If I give you an extension, I’ll be obligated to extend the same courtesy to every sorry person who can’t stick to a simple budget.’”

Belle winced at that. Yes, that sounded like the sort of verbiage Rum would use. She didn’t want to think that he would really let a struggling single mother lose her home. There really wasn’t a good excuse for that. Yes, business was business. But people were more important.

“So what happened next?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Well, that’s where I come in,” he continued. “Not that I did anything, but… anyway. This little munchkin here was about a month old, and Mary Margaret - that’s my wife - was at the doctor for a postpartum checkup. I was making myself useful taking care of Neal here, and hitting up the vending machine for some chocolate-covered pretzels for when she got out. I heard some angry voices around the corner, and… well, I got nosey. So I peeked around the corner and saw Mr. Gold arguing with someone from the billing department. I didn’t catch everything, but I definitely heard him say, ‘should Miss Swan - or anyone else - catch so much as a word of this, your house will be assessed for a long-overdue rent increase.’ Once I got my wife and the baby home, I went to Emma’s place to warn her that Gold was up to something. By the time I got there, she was just getting off the phone with the hospital. They called her to tell her that her bills were taken care of.”

“Mr. Gold paid them?” It felt odd to refer to him by his surname - to her, he was Rum - but nobody else did. 

“As far as I can tell, yeah. Emma just sort of assumed that the insurance company got their heads out of their… behinds. The people of Storybrooke came together to help Emma pay her rent for the month. Gold was the only person who didn’t pitch in.”

“So…” Belle frowned, gathering her thoughts. “I don’t really understand why you didn’t tell Emma. You all but know that he did something incredibly generous for your friend. Why wouldn’t you want her to know?”

“Because  _ Gold _ didn’t want her to know,” David explained. “Besides, if I’d told Emma, she would’ve told Mary Margaret, and then the whole town would’ve found out. My wife means well, but she has a hard time with secrets sometimes. If she thinks someone would benefit from a secret being told, she won’t hesitate. If Gold was cool with threatening someone just to keep things quiet…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Belle rolled her eyes. Of course he didn’t want anyone knowing. The exasperating man wouldn’t publicly contribute twenty dollars towards a woman’s rent - twenty dollars that would wind up right back in his pocket - but he’d spend tens of thousands of dollars on hospital bills and swear everyone involved to secrecy. God, it was like he was trying to make his own life difficult. Or maybe just trying to  _ be _ difficult.

“So then, why tell me?” she asked.

“Well, like I said. I think maybe you could be what he needs. Especially tonight.”

“Tonight? What’s so special about tonight?” she asked, brow furrowing.

David gaped at her, mouth hanging slightly open. “Ohhh boy. Uh… You know what? Forget I said that. Just… go to his house. Tonight. Now, if you can.”

“Okay,” Belle acquiesced. “I’ll just need to call him to get the address.”

“Don’t bother,” he advised, pulling a napkin out of the dispenser and wiping warm milk from baby Neal’s face. “His phone’ll be off all day.”

Belle hesitated. The timing of all this seemed almost too good to be true. After seeing nothing but judgment from the rest of Storybrooke, she couldn’t help the skepticism that niggled at the back of her mind. What were the odds that she just happened to meet the one person who didn’t hate Rum? And on the one night when he wasn’t in his shop - when, according to David, he needed her most?

But David seemed like a decent man. His clean-cut face and clear blue eyes struck her as honest and guileless, with no hint of evasion or deceit in his body language. Everything about him, from his casual demeanor to his attentive care to his young son, inspired trust.

Still, it never hurt to cover one’s bases. “I’d still like to call him anyway.”

He gave an assenting gesture. “Be my guest.”

Excusing herself to a quiet corner, Belle pulled out her cell phone and called Rum. The answer was immediate.

_ “You’ve reached Mr. Gold. Leave a message.” _

_ That _ was his voicemail greeting? It wasn’t unfriendly… exactly… but it was yet another way he did absolutely nothing to ingratiate himself to anyone.

Belle hung up without leaving a message. What was the point? His phone was off, and if David was telling the truth, off it would remain until tomorrow. And if he was telling the truth about that… then Rum needed her. Tonight.

Troubled, her mind wandered back to yesterday morning, when she’d all but begged him to keep the shop closed and stay with her. She’d been so close to convincing him to come back to bed… until she’d told him to just open his shop today. The sorrow in his eyes had nearly taken her breath away. And then, after tea, he’d made some vague comment about things being hard for him this time of year.

Belle groaned quietly. She was an  _ idiot _ for not putting things together sooner. Stiffening her resolve, she strode back to David, where he sat bouncing his son on his knee. “You were right,” she said. “His phone was off. Is that offer for directions to his house still open?”

He didn’t take his eyes off of his son, but he nodded. “Sure. If you take a right out of here…”

******

“Mom! Mom! That store has board games! Can I take a look?”

Emma gave Henry a tolerant smile as he bounced excitedly on his toes. “Sure, kiddo. I’m gonna wait out here. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

“Okay!” His eyes darted over to his dad. “Neal, did you wanna come in with me?”

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Neal replied. “I wanted to talk to your mom about something real quick.”

Henry’s eyes shifted between the two of them, a knowing smile alighting on his face. “Okay.” And with that, he took off for the game shop at a run.

Emma rubbed her gloved hands together to restore a bit of heat to her chilled fingers. December in New York wasn’t nearly as bone-chillingly, face-achingly cold as the weather in Storybrooke this time of year, but there was a definite nip in the air. Still, after spending the last few hours trolling around the overcrowded shops in Bryant Park’s open-air market, enduring the press of the bodies of last-minute shoppers, Emma would gladly soak in the evening’s chill if it meant having a bit of personal space.

Whomever has come up with the idea of this market knew what they were doing, she decided. There was something magical about admiring Christmas decorations outdoors - feeling the warm glow of the holiday spirit warding off the worst of winter’s chill. And all of the market’s shops and stalls were enclosed in small, wooden-framed huts paneled in transparent glass, allowing Emma to keep an eye on Henry from outside. If the cold became too much, all she had to do was duck inside the shop to warm up.

Though her attention was mostly on her son, Emma’s gaze occasionally landed on her ex boyfriend. When she’d called Neal to ask him if he wanted to join her and Henry at the Christmas market today, he’d immediately offered to leave work early to join them. When Emma had protested, he said it was no big deal; he’d just give everyone else the rest of the day off. 

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve,” he’d said. “Half my staff took the day out, and the rest are mentally checked out, including me. Taking a half-day won’t bankrupt my company. Where should I meet you?”

Emma quietly marveled at just how great Neal had been since she’d gotten here. In just a few days he’d gone from being a regular guy with a girlfriend, to a dad learning how to coparent with his ex. And he’d been willing to step up, even thinking that Emma had stolen… well… did it count as stealing from him when she was just stealing stuff he’d already pilfered? Either way. And then, when they’d realized that they’d both been duped into thinking the other had abandoned them, Neal had taken the time to get to the bottom of things while Emma wallowed in her confusion and hurt feelings. 

Emma had pushed him away every step of the way, and he still handled everything with patience and easygoing consideration. In the elevenish years since their breakup, the goofy, mischievous boy she’d known had become… kind of an amazing guy. 

An amazing guy with a girlfriend, she reminded herself ruthlessly. 

“So, uh…” Neal spoke up, pulling Emma from her thoughts, her cheeks warming. “I picked up Henry’s Christmas present yesterday, but I wasn’t sure how to address it. Is, uh… should it be from… S-A-N-T-A?”

Emma snorted, shoving playfully at his shoulder. “Well, first of all, genius, Henry can’t hear us from inside the store,” she said, gesturing where they could see him browsing board games through the transparent walls of the game store. “Second, he’s ten, not five; he can spell. But you can write whatever. I had to tell him the truth about Santa when he was seven.”

“ _ Seven? _ Isn’t that a little young?” He glanced worriedly at her face, and quickly backpedaled. “Not that I’m trying to criticize your parenting or anything.”

“Ugh. I  _ wish _ I could’ve kept him in the dark,” Emma moaned. “But the kid’s too smart for his own good.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, when he was seven, we watched  _ A Muppet Christmas Carol _ ,” she reminisced. “I figured the story would be more fun with puppets. Puppets can make any story better.”

“You won’t hear me argue,” Neal agreed.

“So anyway, naturally Henry has all these questions. Why don’t people like Scrooge? Why is he so mean? Why is Bob Cratchit sad? What happened to Tiny Tim? And on, and on, and on,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “So I had to explain what rich and poor meant. How some people make more money and live in big houses and have more food and things, and other people make less money and have to go without.”

Neal gave a low whistle. “Must’ve been tough to explain that to a seven-year-old,” he remarked.

“You have  _ no idea. _ So I explain as best as I can, and he drops it, so I figure he forgot all about it.” She heaved a heavy sigh, watching Henry while he bent over to take a closer look inside a glass display case. “Well, he didn’t. On the first day of school after winter vacation, I come home and he’s asking me to help him write another letter to Santa.” She could still remember that day as if it had happened last week.

_ “Christmas is almost a full year away, kiddo,” Emma had explained to her son as he sat at the kitchen table with a pencil gripped tightly in his little fist. “You’ve got eleven whole months to stay on Santa’s Nice List. Besides, who knows what cool toys might come out between now and then.” _

_ Earnest, angry brown eyes met hers beseechingly. “I don’t wanna write a Christmas list,” he insisted. “I want to let Santa know I think he’s  _ mean. _ ” _

_ Emma’s heart sank into her stomach. She knew that her job as sheriff’s deputy didn’t give her a ton of extra money, but she’d thought Henry was pretty happy with what he got for Christmas. He must’ve seen some of the other kids’ gifts and gotten jealous.  _

_ Blinking back tears and sinking down to one knee so she could look her son in the eye, she laid one hand on his shoulder. “Henry… I know that getting presents can be really exciting, but Christmas is about more than that. Remember the Cratchits in that Muppet movie? They didn’t have as much as other people, but they were happy with what they had.” _

_ “I know, but it’s not fair! I got my action figures, and Roland got a new computer!” _

_ “Henry…” _

_ “And then Nick and Ava didn’t get anything! It’s not  _ fair! _ ” _

_ Understanding dawned on Emma then. He wasn’t angry that he hadn’t gotten enough for Christmas. He was angry that Santa had skipped over his friends, and couldn’t understand that their father Michael couldn’t afford to buy them gifts with work being so slow at the auto shop. _

“I mean, what do you  _ say _ to a kid about that?” Emma demanded rhetorically. “‘Santa doesn’t get presents for poor kids?’ ‘Sorry, kiddo, sounds like your friends made the Naughty List?’ ‘Santa is fallible, just like all adults are, so get used to disappointment?’ I had to do something, and Henry wouldn’t let it go. So I told him the truth.”

“Makes sense. I don’t know what I would’ve done in your shoes,” Neal admitted with a rueful shake of his head. “So how’d he take it?”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, shivering against the cold. “He was devastated. He cried for the rest of the night. I think having that bit of magic taken away really hurt him.” She didn’t bother mentioning how quickly he’d clued in on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny after that. “Anyway, he knows the truth, but we still do the whole Santa thing - stockings, cookies and milk, all of that. So you can put whatever you want on the label. He’ll go along with it no matter what.”

“Cool, cool.” He glanced over at her and did a double-take. “Hey. You cold?”

She considered putting on a tough front, pretending that the chill didn’t get to her. But she’d been keeping her walls up around him since the second their eyes had met in the doorway of Belle’s apartment, and she was tired of it. She was tired of fighting his every decent impulse when he’d done nothing to deserve her anger. What would it hurt to show just a little bit of softness?

“A little,” she said.

“Tell you what: I saw a hot chocolate stand back there. I’ll grab all three of us some drinks while you keep an eye on our kid. Sound good?”

“Y-yeah.” She couldn’t watch him as he left - she needed to keep an eye on Henry - but the air felt a little colder with him gone.

_ Our kid. _ Her heart ached at that. All this time she’d never really thought of Neal as a dad. Well, objectively, she had, in the “he fathered my child and abandoned me” way. But hearing him acknowledge Henry in that way - not as his kid, or her kid, but  _ their kid _ \- awakened a yearning inside her for all the years they’d lost. 

Emma wondered where they’d be now if things had been different. If August had never come into their lives, or if Emma hadn’t waited to tell Neal she was pregnant. Would they be living here, or in Tallahassee, or maybe even in Storybrooke? Would they be together at all, or would they have driven each other nuts years ago and broken things off? Would Henry be the same person if he’d had Neal in his life?

Would she?

“Hey.” Neal’s voice broke her out of her thoughts. He held up a cardboard drink tray with three paper cups. “I couldn’t remember if you liked whipped cream or not, so I got one with a little dollop and one with a big dollop.”

“Better give me the little one,” she said. “Henry loves whipped cream.”

“Fair enough.” He handed her one of the drinks.

Emma raised the cup to her nose, letting the steam warm her frozen cheeks. The scent of chocolate made her mouth water. Chocolate, and… “Cinnamon?”

“Yeah, I put cinnamon in yours and Henry’s. I wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, but figured I’d go for it. If he doesn’t like it, he can have mine.”

“No, he - he does.” Emma swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat, the ache in her chest. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“Yeah, well…” Neal rubbed uneasily at the back of his head. “I guess the past few days brought a lot of stuff back. Good stuff, you know? Good memories.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She took a sip, the sweetness of the chocolate overwhelming until she swallowed, when the spiciness of the cinnamon bloomed across her tongue. Her eyes stung with tears - just from the wind - and she turned away to wipe discreetly at her face.

Neal cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go inside and give Henry his. You gonna be okay out here?” She nodded mutely. “Okay. We’ll meet you out here in a bit.”

Emma watched as Neal joined Henry inside the shop. Henry turned toward Emma and gave her a cheerful wave before tugging Neal’s hand to show him the latest thing he’d been looking at. They seemed to slip into an easy conversation, Henry showing Neal some games while Neal pulled others down to point out some detail on the boxes. Emma wondered what they were. His favorites, maybe, or ones that he thought Henry would enjoy? She wanted desperately to go in, to join their conversation. Being on the outside looking in was a new, unwelcome feeling for her.

But she couldn’t. Seeing Neal ruffle Henry’s hair while he looked up at his dad adoringly brought an ache to her heart that was more bitter than sweet. The sight of the two of them together made her yearn for them - the three of them - to be a family. A real family, with Sunday morning breakfasts and parent-teacher conferences and stolen kisses while Henry made faces about how gross his parents were.

She wanted it. And she couldn’t have it. Even if Neal wasn’t happy with his girlfriend, she couldn’t put her love life over Henry’s well-being and happiness. She wouldn’t. Not again.

******

Belle pulled her car up to the house David described. The entire street was decked out in festive holiday decor. String lights adorned the eaves of every house in warm white or multicolored hues. A wreath hung from every door. Electric candles glowed in most windows, and a few yards were cluttered with light up reindeer and inflatable Santas. Every house was resplendent with holiday cheer.

Every house except one: a salmon-pink Queen Anne with forest green accents. Were it not for the lights from the street lamps and the surrounding homes, the house would be obscured in darkness. Every curtain was drawn, letting no light within.

Bracing herself against both the cold air and the apprehension fluttering in her stomach, Belle stepped out of her blue coupe and locked it behind her. Stepping up to the house with quick, mincing steps, she knocked on the door. Peeking through the stained glass window didn’t reveal much of anything; the porch light was unlit, and there were no lights on in the entryway. 

She waited for about thirty seconds. When she received no answer, she knocked again. One heeled toe tapped restlessly against the porch. A full minute passed with no hint that anyone was going to answer the door. Belle bit back an annoyed sigh. She was  _ freezing _ , and had no patience for Rum’s reluctant, self-effacing crap. Once she got out of the cold she’d happily talk to him through a closed door if that’s what the ridiculous man wanted, but right now her bare toes burned with the cold. In the interest of sparing herself a nasty case of frostbite, she pounded on the door, hard.

Rum’s irregular tread was just audible through the closed door. “If this isn’t a fucking emergency, you’d better be gone from my doorstep by the time I get there,” he snarled as he limped toward the door. “I’m not dealing today. So you can take your tales of woe, and you can shove them…” He wrenched the door open and stopped dead, his eyes widening in shock. He leaned heavily on his cane while his mouth worked. Finally, he managed to speak one word. “Belle.”

“Rum.” Belle stood dubiously on his doorstep, unsure of her welcome. It was easy to be brave in the warmth of Granny’s diner, and more so when she was shivering on his doorstep. But with Rum wordlessly staring at her as though he couldn’t quite believe she was real, she quailed momentarily. She’d been so consumed by the idea of Rum needing her here that she hadn’t given any consideration to whether he’d  _ want _ her here.

He hissed a breath in through gritted teeth. “You must be half-frozen. Please - come in.” Attributing her shiver to the cold - he was only half right - he quickly stepped to the side to let her in. He scowled furiously at the gray, overcast sky, as though it were to blame for her frozen toes.

The entryway was just as dim as it had seemed through the window. The limited light from a single table lamp illuminated the room just enough to keep Belle from knocking into the antique furniture, but not enough to take in any details. Rum led her quickly through a doorway into a large living room appointed with antique furniture. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and Belle was quickly led to the seat on the couch closest to its warmth. Once he ensured her comfort, he stepped back. 

“I should… I should make tea. Something to warm you.”

Belle’s mind helpfully provided a half dozen other ways he could warm her up, before banishing them all. That wasn’t why she was here. Her hand darted out to snag the cuff of his sleeve. He stopped, turning to look down at her, and Belle really took in his appearance for the first time.

She’d seen Rum dressed down in the mornings, before he left to change clothes and open his shop. She’d seen the meticulous way he presented himself to the general populace. His appearance now was a mix of the two: jacket cast off and draped over the back of a nearby wingback chair, tie loosened and top two buttons of his shirt undone, waistcoat still buttoned from top to bottom. His stubble caught the low orangey light of the fire, the silver glint contrasting with the shadows the blaze cast over his sharp features. The hair on his chin and cheeks was scruffy, longer than she’d ever seen it, and Belle wondered if he’d bothered shaving this morning. His hair had the ruffled appearance of having been raked through repeatedly with agitated fingers.

Belle adored seeing the less guarded version of Rum when he shucked his armor. This wasn’t that. The line of his shoulders was slumped forward in misery or resignation, the grip on the golden handle of his cane shaky and unsure. His lips were pressed in a hard line as they always were when he donned his Mr. Gold mask. The darkness of his eyes had a flinty edge; right now, the wrong word would chip away at him even as it sparked his ire. 

Belle sat in silence and stared at her clasped hands, floundering as she tried to find the right ones. Rum was hurting, but he was also on the defensive. The cool, polished walls he placed around himself so easily were splintered today, and he fairly radiated tension and barely controlled anger. Belle suspected it had something to do with the things both he and David had vaguely alluded to.

“Why did you come here?” His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

Belle swallowed. There was only one thing she could think of that would be causing him this level of pain. Maybe it was wrong; maybe he’d stayed home because his leg was bothering him, or he just hated dealing with last-minute shoppers looking to either buy a quick gift or pawn something for cash. But she was fairly certain that her instincts were right. If they weren’t, he could very well lash out at her. Given his current emotional state, he just might do that anyway.

“Tell me about your son,” she said softly.

Rum reeled back as though he’d been struck. “Who told you about that?” he demanded.

That was it; she’d struck a nerve. Something had happened between him and his son on this day.  _ That _ was what David had been hinting at. At that moment, Belle had no doubt that Rum would seek immediate retribution against anyone he felt had wronged him. If David’s intentions were as good as they seemed, he didn’t deserve that. “You did,” she reminded him. “Nobody else in town has mentioned him. But someone told me that you’d be here, and that you’d…”

“What? That I’d what?”

“That you’d need me.” 

A variety of emotions paraded across his face: anger, pain, fear, hope, loss, yearning. He licked his lips. “You don’t want to hear that story,” he said.

Releasing her grip on his cuff, her hand slid down to entwine with his. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t willing to listen,” she told him, tugging until he relented and sat beside her.

“No, I mean…” He tugged his hand free of hers and raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s an ugly story, about an ugly man. If you hear it, you’ll…” He trailed off, gesturing helplessly with the hand that didn’t have his cane in its iron grip.

Belle considered her next words carefully. She couldn’t promise him that his story wouldn’t change her opinion of him. It very well could. And if she tried to convince him to tell her for his own benefit, to unburden himself, he’d probably brush her off.

“If it’s as bad as you say, don’t you think I deserve to hear it? To know who I’m getting involved with?” she asked slowly.

He opened his mouth to argue, before closing it with a sigh. His shoulders slumped, and he nodded reluctantly. He faced forward on the couch, refusing to turn his body toward her. The firelight outlined his profile: the sweep of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the slight hook of his nose.

With a deep breath, he began. “I told you that I was an angry man when Bae and I came to Storybrooke.” She nodded. “I was still stewing over my divorce. My whole marriage, really. In the last few years, my ex-wife took vindictive pleasure in publicly humiliating me. She would…” Belle couldn’t be sure in the low light of the room, but she thought his cheeks darkened. “She would go to the local pub, find a man who caught her eye, and flirt with him loudly - shamelessly - all night before taking him to bed. And she made damn sure that he knew that he was about to fuck an unhappily married woman. Apparently some men enjoy sleeping with a man’s wife when she makes a point of telling him how weak, short, and crippled her husband is. Makes them feel more masculine,” he muttered bitterly.

“My god, Rum. That’s  _ awful. _ ”

He shrugged, and shot her a sidelong glance. “I’m not telling you this for pity,” he said in clipped tones. “I’m telling you so you understand the type of man I was when I got here. I could do nothing about my stature or my ankle, but I could make damn sure no one in this godforsaken town would ever underestimate me. I was determined never to be that meek, pathetic man who took whatever shit was thrown at him. I was going to carve a place for me and my son, no matter how much I had to harden myself to do it.”

Belle nodded mutely. A man like Mr. Gold didn’t get a reputation like his by accident. She had no doubt in her mind that he’d been every bit as hard and unyielding as people said. But he’d paid a child’s hospital bills when he had nothing to gain in doing so. Moreover, a man who presented himself as the most heartless man in town wouldn’t care so deeply if his reputation dragged Belle through the mud. Not if he was as heartless as they said.

Rum shifted his cane so it rested between his planted feet. Both hands gripped the handle, his knuckles white. “Bae…  _ hated _ what I’d become. I tried to shelter him from my business, but… people talk. It was inevitable that he’d find out. Any time I sent out an eviction notice, or repossessed collateral on a defaulted loan, he’d beg me to show leniency. He’d say, ‘I don’t care about the money. I just want my Papa back.’” He was quiet for a full minute. Swallowing hard, he continued. “I was too stubborn to listen. My weakness cost me the love of my wife. I wouldn’t let it cost me my son. I was so obsessed, not with money, but with the power it brought. And in the end, that power is what drove him away.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“I held onto him too tightly,” he admitted. “I started imposing unfair restrictions on him to keep him close. With every passing day I could feel him slipping further from me. The greater the distance between us, the harder I fought to keep him. The harder I fought, the angrier we both became - him with me, me with anyone unlucky enough to cross my path. By the time he turned fourteen, he was barely speaking to me.

“Then… fourteen years ago today, it all came to a head.” He glanced at Belle quickly before looking away. In that brief moment, he’d looked like he was going to be ill. “Bae was fifteen, and he wanted to do some last-minute Christmas shopping with friends. I wouldn’t let him. I told him he could go with me, or not at all.” Balling his hand into a fist, he slammed it into his knee. Belle snatched his hand up and entwined his fingers with hers, giving them a light squeeze to show her wordless support. He didn’t return the pressure, but neither did he pull away. “I should have let him go. I had no reason not to, apart from stubborn pride. If I’d done things differently…” 

Watching helplessly, Belle did everything she could to offer Rum the support he needed. Telling this story was clearly causing him a great deal of pain. She wondered if he’d ever talked about this to anyone else, or if she was the first. Her heart ached at the pain and anger in his eyes, and she was tempted to tell him he didn’t have to finish his story. But doing so wouldn’t stop him from wallowing in his misery; he was mired in it, and had been all day. She could only hope that unburdening himself would help him to keep his head above the surface.

His eyes took on a far-off look as he continued his tale. In that moment, Belle knew that Rum wasn’t here in the room with her. He was fourteen years in the past, watching regretfully as he lost his only family. “We were crossing the street, Bae doing his best to outpace me. With my ankle, I couldn’t hope to keep up with him. He was nearly across when a car came barreling around the corner.” Belle gasped, horrified on Rum’s behalf. He spared her a brief glance and forged on. “Bae wasn’t hit. He managed to jump out of the way at the last second. A near-death experience, and all he had to show for it was a scraped knee.” He sniffed with a humorless smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “The driver wasn’t so fortunate.”

Belle opened her mouth - to encourage him to continue, or to offer him comfort - but the words stuck in her throat. This story hadn’t gone the way she’d expected. When he mentioned the car, she’d been sure that he was going to recount a tale of holding his dying son in his arms. But his son was okay, which meant there was more to come. And the way darkness tinged his tone when he mentioned the driver… Whatever was to come, it wouldn’t be good.

In lieu of speaking, Belle rubbed her thumb in soothing circles over the back of his hand. He didn’t react.

“He got out of the car and immediately started screaming at Bae - accusing him of not looking, of running in front of his car. And I went mad.” He made a disgusted sound. “Years of accumulating money and power, and what did it come to? Nothing,” he spat. “All that power, and I was still the same helpless man I’ve always been - too lame and slow to push my boy out of the way of a moving car. If he’d been one second slower…” A horrified shudder wracked his thin frame. “In that moment I felt… everything. Disgusted at myself for being unable to save Bae. Terrified at how close I’d come to losing him for good. Furious with the man who had almost stolen my boy away from me.” The hand not in Belle’s grip tightened on the handle of his cane, his grasp so tight that his arm trembled with it.

Belle’s eyes were drawn to the movement. “What did you do?” she whispered, fearing she knew the answer.

The sound that came from Rum’s throat was somewhere between a scoff and a sob. “I beat him,” he hissed. “I beat him while I saw red and all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. I beat him so badly he was rushed to the hospital.” His lips turned down in a miserable line. He bowed his head in shame, his hair falling forward to curtain his face. “I beat him while my boy looked on in horror and begged me to stop.” With a deep, shuddering breath, he concluded his story in a flat voice: “Needless to say, I was arrested, and had two days in a holding cell to think about what I’d done. Making bail was no issue; Dove brought the money over as soon as I called. But by then, Bae was gone.”

For a while, they both sat in silence. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The flames were beginning to die down; soon the whole room would be plunged into darkness. Desperate for something to break the tension, Belle gave Rum’s hand a quick squeeze before letting it go so she could build the fire back up. Once the flames were licking the fresh logs she’d added, she dusted her hands off and resumed her seat.

Rum hadn’t moved an inch while she worked. As though a thousand pounds of weight rested on them, his shoulders were hunched and trembling. His hand still had a death grip on his cane, and the desolate, faraway look hadn’t left his face. Belle took hold of his free hand. He started, looking at her as though he’d forgotten she was there. Hope warred with resignation in his eyes.

“I have questions,” she finally said, her tone serious and businesslike.

He nodded reluctantly. “I expected as much.”

There were things she wanted to know about Bae, about Rum’s arrest, about his marriage, and about why he insisted on clinging to the mask of the ruthless landlord when that wasn’t the man he was underneath. But there was one question that demanded an answer before all others. Rum’s response would determine whether this thing between them had any hope of lasting.

“Well, I suppose I only have one,” she corrected herself. “Have you hurt anyone else?” she asked. 

“ _ No! _ ” He sounded horrified at the thought. “Belle, I swear to you, I haven’t raised a hand… or anything… to anyone before or since.” He leaned his cane against the couch and took her hand in both of his own. “That day was the worst of my life. I’ve spent the past fourteen years trying to be a better man. For Bae. I don’t always succeed, but I’m  _ trying _ .”

Belle nodded. Rum seemed to genuinely rue his actions that day. Not just because they had cost him his son, either; he didn’t seem to like the man he’d become much. When she looked at Rum, she saw a man with regrets. A man who had made poor choices and paid for them by losing that which he held most dear. A man trapped by the repercussions of his actions, boxed in by the reputation he’d so painstakingly crafted for himself.

All other questions could wait, she decided. Telling his story had no doubt been a harrowing experience for him. She let go of his hand. As soon as she did he pulled away, seeming to take her withdrawal as a matter of course. Unwilling to let that stand, she brushed his hair away from his face, the soft strands gliding smoothly through her fingers. The look he gave her was equal parts bewilderment, resignation, and hope.

“Belle?”

She cupped his cheeks in her hands, the prickle of his stubble tickling her palms. “Thank you for telling me,” she said with a sweet smile. “That took a lot of courage.”

Rum blinked rapidly, his eyes overly bright. “I don’t understand. You should be furious, or - or frightened of me. Belle, I’m a  _ monster _ who put a man in the hospital!”

“Not a monster,” she argued. “A man who made a terrible mistake. One he hasn’t repeated.” Her lips quirked up in a small, sad smile. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Rum.”

He shook his head in denial. “I’m not… You shouldn’t… I’ve done horrible things,” he stammered desperately.

“You have,” she agreed. To say otherwise would only minimize what he’d done, and she didn’t want to do that. His remorse was well-founded, and a powerful motivator to turn over a new leaf, if that was what he wanted. “Do you regret what happened? Your anger, your possessiveness of Bae, hurting that man… do you regret it?”

“Every day,” he whispered.

“Then I forgive you,” she said simply. He shook his head again, tried to pull back from her. Belle threaded her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, anchoring him to her. “I forgive you, Rumford Gold.” 

“Don’t!” His hands came up to her upper arms, gripping them hard enough to skirt the edges of pain. His eyes were angry, and frightened, and achingly vulnerable. 

Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against his, her eyes holding his. “I forgive you.”

He broke with a sob. His arms snaked around her, his fingers clawing at the thick fabric of her coat at her back as he pulled her into him so hard she could barely breathe. With one arm wrapped around his waist, the other carded slowly through his hair, soothing him as his shoulders shook with quiet sobs. 

Belle swallowed against the painful lump in her throat, her eyes stinging with tears of her own. This poor man. Forgiveness and understanding must be in short supply in his life if her simple words could shatter his composure so completely. After fourteen years, he couldn’t even find it in him to forgive himself.

As Belle let her tears fall, leaving hot trails down her cheeks, she wondered helplessly if Rum would ever be able to see his son again.

******

“No. Nope. No way.” Neal shook his head vehemently.

“Oh, come on, you wuss,” Emma teased. “It’s ice skating, not BASE jumping. The worst thing that’ll happen is you might fall and bruise your butt.”

“Hey, my butt can’t afford any more damage! It’s already got a crack in it.”

Henry hooted with laughter at his dad’s quip. Emma rolled her eyes with a groan, knowing that a few weeks from now she’d be hearing from Mary Margaret when Henry decided to share his new joke with the class. “Seriously, Neal, there’s nothing to it. Henry and I can show you what to do.”

“Yeah, Neal, we won’t let you fall!” Henry chimed in cheerfully. 

Neal threw up his hands. “Ugh. Fine, you win! I’ll rent a pair of skates. But if I don’t like it, I reserve the right to leave the rink and pout on the sidelines.”

“Deal,” Emma and Henry both said at the same time.

Before they knew it, the three of them were out on the ice, patiently walking Neal through the steps of skating: how to keep his balance, how to accelerate and turn and brake. Soon he was moving on his own, wobbling like a newborn colt, with his arms spread for balance. Emma stayed at his side while Henry skated circles around the two of them, laughing every time Neal almost lost his balance. 

Eventually, Neal gained the confidence to chase after Henry, who evaded him effortlessly. Emma joined the fray, and soon the two adults had Henry cornered between them. He yelped as they crashed into him, enveloping him in a crushing hug while he made a half-hearted effort to escape. 

Emma’s green eyes met Neal’s brown, her breath catching at the soft expression they held. Emma’s heart sped up. Was it possible that he wanted this to be real as much as she did? Did he crave family as badly as she did? In the year they’d dated, they never got around to talking about it. Being an orphan, Emma had always wanted kids. But Neal was a runaway from a crummy home. She’d always figured he wasn’t interested. Had she been wrong all this time?

It didn’t matter. He had a girlfriend. Neal might be willing to coparent with Emma, but they’d never be a family.

“Come on,” she said. “Rental time’s almost up. We’d better get our skates off and return them before they charge us for another hour.” 

Together the three of them exited the rink, waddling to nearby seats so they could take their skates off. Once everyone’s shoes were on and laced up, Neal held out his hands for Emma and Henry’s skates. 

“Here, give ‘em to me. I can… take… them…” He trailed off, his face going white as a sheet. “What the fuck?!”

Emma, who was about to scold Neal for swearing in front of Henry, turned around to see what he was staring at. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the distance. An a capella group was singing “Last Christmas,” a police officer was directing traffic in the streets, a beautiful black woman with a waterfall of sleek, dark hair was locked in an embrace with her boyfriend…

Oh.

Oh no.

“Oh shhh… shoot, is that…?” Emma trailed off with a wince. If there was a sensitive way to ask “hey, is that your girlfriend over there playing tonsil hockey?”, then she sure as hell didn’t know the words.

Henry looked up at his parents, confused. “Mom? What’s going on?”

She tore her eyes away from the sight, and fussed with the buttons on Henry’s coat to distract the both of them. “Nothing,” she said. 

She gave Neal a sidelong glance. He took a stiff, unsteady step forward, then another. Another. His legs were rickety and unyielding underneath him, like he’d aged fifty years in the past minute. Every step brought another, each quicker than the last, until he was running toward the couple.

“Tamara!” Emma could just barely hear Neal’s yell over the distance and general din of city life. The couple pulled apart, the woman’s jaw dropping in horror. Her partner, a man whose sandy brown hair had receded far back from his forehead, hunched his shoulders sheepishly.

“What’s going on, Mom? Who’s Neal talking to?” Henry asked.

Hoo boy. That was not a conversation she needed to have with her kid just now. “That’s Neal’s business,” she told him, laying a hand on his shoulder and guiding him in the opposite direction.

“But--”

“Henry,” Emma interrupted. “I know you. You want to go over there and see if you can help. But getting in the middle of that won’t help anybody. Okay?”

Henry glanced back over his shoulder, and Emma did the same. Neal was yelling something, gesticulating agitatedly at his girlfriend and her… boyfriend? Booty call? Whatever. Tamara said something in return, and Neal raked both hands roughly through his hair.

“There has to be  _ something _ we can do to help,” Henry insisted.

“Maybe later,” Emma conceded, “But not now. They need to hash things out themselves.” Henry didn’t look convinced. Emma sighed. “I’ll call him tomorrow to check up on him. Okay?”

“I guess.” Not happy with the compromise, he nonetheless let Emma herd him out of the park and toward the apartment building.

Emma, for her part, tried not to think too hard about the implications of what she’d just seen. The rug had been pulled out from under his feet yet again; the poor guy just couldn’t catch a break. His ex girlfriend was in town, with his kid, and it turned out she hadn’t stolen from him like he’d thought all these years. His girlfriend should’ve been a source of stability in his life, someone he could lean on when things got rough. Now that was gone, too. What next? Was his company suddenly going to go under?

Oh god, she hoped she hadn’t just jinxed him.

As she escorted Henry into the apartment building, she tried to ignore the petty, selfish part of her that was only too happy to point out that, after tonight, the father of her child might not have a girlfriend anymore.

******

Belle wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Rum finally calmed in her arms. For a few bittersweet minutes he was pliant in her arms, all the tension leached out of his limbs. His slow breaths stirred a few hairs near her neck, causing them to stir and tickle her lightly.

Finally he cleared his throat and sat back, putting some distance between them. He froze, his eyes on her face. “Oh, Belle,” he said, his face a mask of misery.

It took her a moment to figure out what had upset him. The tears drying cold on her face keyed her into the problem. “Oh!” she cried, wiping her face on the sleeve of her coat with a rueful chuckle. “Sorry about that. I have a strict policy that nobody cries alone in my presence.”

Rum furrowed his brow in consternation, patting at his chest. He looked down at himself, confused, then glanced around the room until his gaze alighted on the wingback armchair. “Right,” he muttered to himself, planting his cane on the floor and pushing himself to his feet. He limped to the chair where his jacket was draped, tugged his pocket square free and shook it out before offering it to Belle. She accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes and wiping the tears from her cheeks before they could dry into stiff, itchy tracks down her face “No need to ruin your… your coat,” he said with another frown as he looked her up and down. “I’m sorry - I should have offered to take that for you,” he said with a slight wince.

Belle waved off his apology. “You had a lot on your mind,” she said. “Besides, I was freezing when I got here. I needed a chance to warm up.”

“Regardless, let me take it for you now,” he offered.

Belatedly, Belle realized that she really wasn’t dressed appropriately for the occasion. When she’d dressed this afternoon, it had been with the hopes of inviting Rum out for dinner, and then back to her place. She hadn’t anticipated his fragile emotional state. 

She couldn’t let him see her in this dress. He needed her support, not her not-so-subtle way of hinting that she’d very much like to get him into bed with her again. 

“That’s okay. I can leave it on,” she told him.

“Nonsense. The least I can do is make you comfortable.” When Belle opened her mouth to argue, he hastened to add, “I insist.”

“Well… okay.” She nervously undid her buttons, sliding the large wooden discs through the buttonholes. When it came time to shrug out of the garment, she dithered. “Um… for the record, I was originally planning to meet you at your shop. I didn’t realize that today was… well… Anyway, I just want you to know that I’m not expecting anything. I just wanted to see you.”

“Noted,” he said with a bemused smirk as he maneuvered himself behind her. She shrugged out of her coat, shivering slightly as the cool air hit her shoulders. Rum took the coat without a word. He paused, the silence stretching between them. She could feel the heavy weight of his eyes on her as they slowly slid down her form, missing nothing: the tumble of burnished chestnut curls, the creamy expanse of skin on her shoulders, the smooth dip of her waist that flared into her rounded hips. 

Instead of moving to hang her coat on the coatstand by the door, he tossed it carelessly over the back of the couch. She felt the heat of his hands on her bare shoulders before he ever touched her, his fingers reverently brushing her hair over one shoulder to expose the long line of her neck. Her shiver this time had nothing to do with the room’s lingering chill. As the tips of his fingers ghosted over her bare skin, caressing without actually touching her, she burned for him to touch her properly.

“Rum,” she said softly, beseechingly. Before she could turn to demand the kiss she so desperately wanted, his hands spanned her waist, holding her just where she was while he pressed himself to her back. The sound of his cane clattering to the floor barely registered with either of them. His lips against the side of her neck were nearly scalding in their intensity as he laid frantic, open-mouthed kisses up and down the column of her throat. She whimpered, tilting her head to the side to give him easier access.

“God, Belle, you’re so beautiful,” he mumbled against her skin. “So soft and warm and perfect… inside and out. I just want to bury myself in you and never leave.”

His words were clear enough, but Belle still wanted to be sure before things went any further. The rigid length of him pressing insistently against the cleft of her buttocks left little doubt in her mind, but she wanted him to have no regrets in the morning. “Rum, are you sure?” she gasped, only just resisting the urge to grind back into him. “I don’t want to take advantage—” She cut herself off with a ragged cry as he latched onto the sensitive junction of her shoulder and neck, his teeth scraping lightly in punishment for her words.

“Don’t make me stop,” he panted, his hands wandering restlessly over her front: mapping the curve of her waist, tickling at her ribs, thumbing lightly at the sensitive undersides of her breasts. “Please, sweetheart. I need this. I need you.”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes,” she said, and before the word was out of her mouth she was being spun in his arms, his hands at her hips tugging her to him as his lips slanted over hers. Belle’s fingers slid into his hair, luxuriating in its softness while he plundered her mouth, the sensuous twining of their tongues interrupted only by ragged gasps and breathy sighs. Rum’s erection throbbed, hard and insistent, against her belly. Aching to feel his heat and hardness where she needed him most, she tentatively raised one knee, careful not to lean on him too heavily out of deference for his ankle.

Rum moaned into her mouth in approval, his hand hooking under her knee to tug it higher so he could thrust against her directly. Belle broke the kiss with a cry. Rum’s mouth trailed up her jawline, catching her earlobe between his teeth and tugging lightly with a hungry growl. A bolt of pure sensation shot through her, causing her to buck roughly against Rum’s hips. The movement threw him off-balance, and he hissed in pain as his weight was shifted onto his bad ankle. He staggered back a step with a grimace.

Belle’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh god, I’m so sorry!” she cried, her voice muffled by her fingers.

“It’s… it’s fine,” he gritted out, bending awkwardly to retrieve his cane. He leaned heavily on it, rotating his ankle gingerly. “No harm done,” he assured her. “But perhaps we could take this someplace more comfortable?”

Belle agreed readily, following him out of the room and up the stairs to a bedroom. Before she could get more than the vaguest impression of the room, she was in his arms once more. He kissed her like he was starving for her, echoing her needy moans with quiet groans of his own. Belle plucked at the knot of his tie, teasing it loose and slipping it free of his collar. She fumbled blindly for his shirt buttons. She managed to undo half of them with trembling fingers, until she was stopped by his waistcoat. She groaned frustratedly into his mouth. This man and all his damn buttons! He chuckled in response, his free hand groping around her back in search of her zipper. Unzipping her with one hand was an awkward affair; by the time he managed to pull the tab all the way down, Belle had finished unbuttoning him and was pushing both shirt and waistcoat impatiently down his arms. 

Belle’s fingers greedily mapped the smooth planes of his thin chest. Rum shuddered beneath her touch, pressing himself closer so she could feel him fully. The sound he made when her thumbs rasped over his nipples was one of pure need. Smirking into his mouth, she did it again.

He tugged his lips free of hers. “Minx,” he growled low in his throat. He backed himself to the bed, tugging her with him, and perched on the edge with a sigh. Reverent hands came up to rest on her shoulders, stroking up and down for the sheer pleasure of touching her skin. Soon, though, his hands traveled down to the straps of her dress, pulling them slowly down until the garment pooled around her feet, leaving her clad only in a pair of lace panties.

His hands came to rest on her waist, then. He held her at arm’s length, contenting himself just to look at her. His eyes roamed over every last inch of her, taking their time in drinking her in. Finally they rose to her face, gazing up at her adoringly. Belle blushed hot under the heat of his regard, and the same hands that held her back now tugged her toward him. He pulled her between his legs, his lips pressing to her chest with a groan. He rained open-mouthed kisses all over her chest - her breasts, her sternum, her collarbones - anywhere but the stiff peaks of her nipples. Belle’s fingers moved restlessly over the warm, smooth skin of his shoulders, his neck, the roughness of cheeks, sifting through his hair, the light glinting in the silver at his temples. His mouth set her aflame. She tried to guide him by his hair, begging him wordlessly to take one of her aching nipples in his mouth. He resisted, glancing up at her with a filthy chuckle.

“Rum,” she breathed, “please.”

“Well, since you ask so nicely,” he murmured against her skin. Without further ado, he took the stiff peak in his mouth, applying gentle suction. Belle’s knees buckled underneath her. Climbing onto the bed, she straddled him, holding him in place by his hair. His hands caressed her back from her shoulder blades to her arse, leaving not an inch untouched as though he couldn’t get enough of her. As he switched to her other breast, his right hand strayed to her front, trailing slowly lower until his fingers dipped into the waistband of her panties.

Belle wrapped a hand around his wrist, stopping him. He pulled back and looked in her eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust. “What do you want, Belle?” he rasped.

“You,” she whispered, smoothing his hair back from his face. “Just you.”

He mumbled something she didn’t quite catch against her skin. With a light pat to her bottom to signal her to move, he quickly shucked the rest of his clothes. Belle shimmied eagerly out of her panties and waited for him at the head of the bed. The moment he was as bare as she, he crawled toward her with intent, blanketing her body with his own. Belle’s legs opened in invitation, her hips cradling his. She could feel him, hard and twitching, against her belly.

Rum kissed her again, sucking her lower lip until she opened for him. For a few minutes they slowed down, content to simply kiss and caress each other, hands gliding over skin. When her cool fingers wrapped around his length, he groaned, hips bucking helplessly. Belle positioned him at her entrance, her eyes beseeching his. He needed no further invitation. With a harsh groan, he sheathed himself inside her with a single thrust. He pulled out slowly, slowly, until Belle cried out, fearing he’d pull out entirely. They both sighed in relief as he sank back into her. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms twining around his neck, anchoring him firmly to herself. Held as closely as he was, he ground his hips slowly into hers.

“God, Belle,” he sighed. “So perfect. So fucking perfect.”

He set an excruciatingly slow pace, the pleasure a sweet ache that bloomed slowly between them. They sipped slowly at each other’s lips, exchanging warm, wet kisses and breathy sighs. When the tension between them became too much, Rum snapped his hips forward, eliciting a cry from her throat. He did it again - again - until that sweet ache grew nearly unbearable. 

“Please, Rum,” she whispered against his lips. “Please, please, please.”

With one final thrust he cried out, his hips jerking against hers. The heat of his release flooded her, sparking something deep within her that sent her careening over the edge. She buried her face in his throat, sucking and teething at his skin as she screamed into him.

For a long time they lay together, panting raggedly as the sweat cooled and dried on their skin. Eventually Rum rolled off of her onto his back. Belle tucked herself into his side, feeling like a boneless, sated puddle. Her fingers traced idle, random patterns on his chest.

“I neglected to mention it earlier,” Rum murmured, “but that dress looked fantastic on you.”

Belle snorted quietly. “Don’t people usually say ‘you look fantastic in that dress’?” she asked.

He scoffed. “You look fantastic in anything. Especially in nothing at all,” he added, one hand gliding slowly along the curve of her hip. “That dress is just a dress. You make it look good.”

Belle’s smile was pleased and a little shy. She opened her mouth to repay the compliment in kind, when her stomach rumbled loudly.

“Hungry?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “My original plan for the evening was to drag you out of your shop and go out to dinner. When I found out you were here, I came as soon as I could.”

He looked a little abashed at that. “I’m sorry, Belle.”

A strand of hair had fallen into his eyes. “Don’t be,” she said softly. “I’m not. I wouldn’t change a thing.” Her stomach growled again. She rolled her eyes. “But I wouldn’t complain if some food entered the equation.”

“Well then.” His hand came slowly up to her face, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Let’s see if we can’t whip something up for dinner.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, some people were mad at David a few chapters ago when he inadvertently cockblocked Belle and Gold. I'd say he's redeemed himself, wouldn't you?
> 
> In other news, I was NOT thinking when I named Gaston's character Greg. I completely forgot Tamara's boyfriend's name. Whoops.


	9. Burning the Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was looking up Scottish Christmas traditions, and this mess of attempted symbolism is the result. For someone who loves symbolism and extended metaphors, I use as hell have a hard time with them. This chapter fought me every step of the way.

_ December 24th _

“Sweetheart.” Belle grunted in protest as Rum gently shook her awake. “Sweetheart, your phone’s ringing.”

Of course it was. Of course nobody could wait until after ten to call her. Of course on the first vacation she’d taken in years, she had to surround herself with  _ morning people _ . She’d been forced to get up early more in the past week than she had in the past year. “Who is it?” she mumbled, her words slurred with sleep.

“Er…” He checked the screen of her phone. “Neal. Your friend.”

Belle growled in frustration. “I’d better take it,” she grumbled.

Rum placed her phone in her waiting hand. Before she could answer it, he leaned in for a quick peck on the lips, which she happily obliged. “I’ll get the kettle on,” he offered, limping toward the door. Just as she was about to answer the phone, it stopped ringing.

She smiled at Rum affectionately. “You’re amazing, you know that?” 

He paused in the doorway at her words, looking over his shoulder at her with a bemused smile on his lips. “For making tea?” he asked.

“No. Just for being you.” His cheeks darkened in a fiery blush, a shy smile on his lips. “And for putting up with my grumpy butt in the mornings.”

“It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” Belle’s eyes swept over him, enjoying the sight of all that bare skin on display. His silk pajama pants rode low on his hips, and his chest was bare. Before she could take the opportunity to admire him further, her phone started ringing again. She scowled at the device, wondering if there was an app to deliver a smack upside a caller’s head. Rum took the opportunity to disappear through the door. 

Answering her phone, Belle gave the most appropriate greeting she could think of for her friend: a loud, wordless, drawn-out groan of protest.

_ “Hey, Belle. I hate to bug you this early--” _

“No you don’t. You  _ love _ to bug me this early.”

_ “Belle. Not now. Please,” _ he said gravely.

That caused Belle to sit up in bed, tucking the blanket under her armpits to cover her breasts. She knew Neal couldn’t see her, but she still didn’t fancy the idea of talking to her best friend with her tits out. “What is it? Did something happen? Is everything okay? Is it Emma and Henry?”

_ “Jesus, slow down! Emma and Henry are fine. I just…fuck.” _ Neal took a deep breath.  _ “I caught Tamara making out with some guy last night.” _

“Wait, wait, wait. Tamara? I thought you said she was staying with her family over the holidays.”

_ “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. I guess that was all bullshit. Apparently she’s been seeing this guy for over a year. All those times she said she was visiting with her sister, she was really screwing around on me.” _ He made an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. _ “And that last-minute ‘business trip’ to California she had to go on for her birthday? She and her other boyfriend spent the weekend at Niagara Falls. So every time she called to say how nice the beaches were, how she couldn’t wait for my company to take off so we could take a trip there together? She was full of shit. She even faked the time difference!”  _ He snorted mirthlessly.  _ “I bet her and Greg got a real laugh out of that.” _

“Greg?” she asked. “Not--”

_ “Not your ex,”  _ Neal interrupted impatiently.  _ “Different Greg.” _

Belle winced. She wasn’t trying to make Neal’s pain about her, but the name surprised her. “Oh, Neal,” she sighed, “I’m so sorry. I know you really loved her.”

_ “I guess.” _

Belle frowned. That wasn’t exactly the sound of a man suffering the throes of heartbreak. Yes, he sounded angry that he’d been cheated on. But he didn’t sound particularly sad. Belle knew Neal better than she knew anyone else. They told each other  _ everything _ . She knew his favorite pizza toppings, his most secret insecurities, his most embarrassing childhood story. Most importantly, she knew that Neal bawled like a baby when he was sad. To this day, he still cried any time an animal died in a movie - a fact she’d sworn never to tell anyone, on pain of having one of her own embarrassing secrets told.

Right now, his voice wasn’t thick with tears. Nor did it have the hoarseness he got when he cried himself out. Mostly, he just sounded tired. It was a tone she recognized well; she’d sounded exactly the same after she’d broken things off with Greg. Maybe Neal hadn’t been quite so happy with Tamara as he’d let on. 

“So… what are you going to do now?” she asked.

_ “God, I don’t even know,” _ he admitted.  _ “Obviously my Christmas proposal went right out the window. I tried returning the ring today, but the store wouldn’t take it. I’ve gotta see if I can sell it. Honestly, I might just pawn the damn thing. I don’t really wanna look at it.” _

“Makes sense. So how are you holding up?”

He sighed.  _ “I mean… it sucks, you know? Being cheated on sucks. Being lied to sucks. But I don’t have to tell you that.” _

“No, you don’t,” she agreed quietly.

_ “Anyway, I’m boxing up all of Tamara’s crap now. Once I’m done I’m gonna drop it all off at her boyfriend’s place.” _

Belle chewed her lower lip apprehensively. She really didn’t want to cut her holiday short. Even if the change of scenery hadn’t been exactly what her spirit needed, leaving Rum before she had to was the last thing in the world she wanted. They’d just turned a real corner last night, and she feared that leaving now, before she could cement things between them, would undo all of the progress they’d made.

But Neal was like a brother to her, and he’d had a tumultuous week. Abandoning him to deal with everything on his own would be selfish and unfair.

“Do you need me to come home early? I could be there tonight.” Belle groped around the bed with her free hand. She was pretty sure her panties had been kicked to the end of the bed at some point during the night. Yes, there they were. She quickly shimmied into them, still holding the blanket to her chest.

_ “Nah, don’t worry about it,”  _ he assured her. _ “I pretty much called to vent and get a little emotional support. Anyway, Emma invited me over for dinner tonight, and tomorrow I’ll be back to do the whole opening presents thing with Henry. So at least I won’t be alone.”  _ He snorted, his voice taking on a lighter tone.  _ “Besides, I think you’ve gotten less cranky when I bug you in the morning. Let me guess: you’re with Man-Candy.” _

“ _ Man-Candy _ ? God, Neal, you’re awful.” Reaching one leg off the side of the bed, she managed to hook her big toe in Rum’s shirt, pulling it up onto the bed and shrugging it on. Purple wasn’t exactly her color, but she wanted something with sleeves to ward off the early morning chill. She put the phone on speaker to free up her hand so she could do up the buttons.

_ “I’m an absolute delight, and you know it,” _ he retorted.  _ “And I noticed you didn’t deny it. So all’s well between you two love birds?” _

“Yeah,” she said, thinking about all that had happened last night. The sex had been amazing - sensual and intimate and desperate - but what really mattered most was that he’d trusted her enough to tell her the ugly parts of his past. After how emotionally draining that must have been for him, Belle would have gladly spent a chaste night in his arms. She was humbled and overjoyed that he considered her so worthy of his trust. “Yeah, things are good.” She quickly shook her head. “Not just good. They’re… wonderful. Amazing. Transcendent. Spectacular.”

_ “Okay, Miss Thesaurus, I get it,” _ Neal laughed.  _ “Anyway, I’ve gotta go. I want to get Tamara’s crap out of the apartment before noon.” _

“Okay. Love to Emma and Henry.”

_ “Thanks. I’ll pass on the message.” _ Was it just her, or was there a smile in his voice? She’d kill to be able to see his face right now; she could read his expressions like nobody else, but not over the phone.  _ “Love to Mr. Snappy Dresser Sex God.” _

“God, Neal, you  _ need _ to work on your nicknames.”

_ “Nope. I plan on calling him that when you introduce us.” _

“You know, you’re giving me a very good incentive to keep you two several states apart,” she warned him.

Neal made a rude noise.  _ “We both know I’ll be invited to the wedding. And then you’ll be Mrs. Snappy Dresser Sex God. Goddess? Whatever.” _

“ _ Goodbye _ , Neal.”

_ “Later.” _

Flopping back into the pillows with a sigh, Belle rubbed her hands over her face. Despite Neal’s assurances and joking demeanor, she could tell that recent events were starting to wear on him. He’d called her several times this week already, when normally they could go weeks on end without contacting each other. He needed someone to lean on, and she was hundreds of miles away. And yet, selfishly, she was glad he’d turned down her offer to come back. With every passing day, she found herself dreading January 30th more and more.

Still, she felt a bit guilty for not wanting to go home to be Neal’s emotional support. Mostly, she felt guilty for not feeling guiltier.

“So I’m a sex god, am I?”

Belle nearly jumped out of her skin at Rum’s voice. Sitting bolt upright, hand on her chest over her hammering heart, she shot him a dirty look. His returning grin was completely unrepentant. He leaned against the doorjamb, both hands occupied with a silver tea tray sporting a blue and white ceramic tea set. His cane was hooked carefully over his forearm. “You heard that? How long were you standing there?” she demanded.

“Long enough to overhear that things are… how did you put it? ‘Wonderful. Amazing. Transcendent. Spectacular.’” Limping carefully into the room, he set the tea tray down on the dresser, busying himself with preparing two cups.

Belle’s face burned hot as she realized just how much she’d inadvertently revealed to Rum. “I thought we’d be having tea downstairs,” she mumbled, embarrassed. “I wouldn’t have put the call on speaker if I’d known you were coming back up.”

Rum turned to the bed with a cup and saucer in each hand, holding out one of them for her to take. Once she did, he settled against the headboard next to her. “I’m glad you did,” he said earnestly. “I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that you didn’t walk out the door without a backward glance after I told you about Bae. Hearing what you had to say about me when you didn’t know I was listening… well, it makes for a pleasant change from the things my ex-wife used to say, whether she knew I was in earshot or not,” he admitted. With the hand not holding her saucer, Belle gave his knee an affectionate squeeze, which seemed to pull him from his temporary melancholy. “Besides, it’s not every day I hear that the woman I’m seeing thinks I’m a sex god.”

Belle gave his shoulder a playful bump. “Well, before you let your head swell up  _ too _ much, I should tell you that ‘sex god’ was Neal’s phrasing, not mine,” she teased. “I just said you were good in bed.”

Rum took her cup and saucer from her then, placing it and his own carefully on the nightstand. Before she could worry too much about whether she’d offended him with her teasing, he had her flipped on her back, looming over her with a menacing leer. “Cheeky minx,” he growled in her ear, sending a frisson of excitement through her. “Whatever are we going to do with that smart mouth of yours?”

Opening her thighs, Belle moaned quietly as he settled between them. “I’m sure you can think of an idea or two,” she murmured huskily.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Belle and Rum were breathless, sprawled naked across the sheets, drinking tea that had gone stone cold. The grin on her face must be absolutely insufferable, she reflected. Far from being offended by her ribbing, Rum had set out to prove just how well he could please her. Her inner thighs were pleasantly slick from his efforts, her muscles just the right kind of sore. It was, hands down, the best sex she’d had in her life. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. Not when they both had so much fun with the results of her teasing.

“So what’s the verdict?” he asked with a smug, knowing smirk.

“Hmm… will you settle for sex demigod?” she asked.

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I must. For now. At least I’ve attained some level of divinity.” He took a long sip of his tea, his eyes sparkling over the rim of his teacup.

“I, on the other hand, have to content myself with being a mere mortal,” she said with an over dramatic sigh of her own. “At least until I become Mrs. Snappy Dresser Sex God.”

Rum choked on his tea, and with dawning horror Belle belatedly realized exactly what she’d implied. Her face flamed with embarrassment, her tongue tripping over itself in its haste to explain.

“I mean - not that I’m looking for - but I’m not  _ not _ looking - but… oh, piss it,” she stammered. “Can we just forget I said that?”

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

His hastily spoken words brought her frantic thoughts to a stuttering halt. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. Shouldn’t he be making excuses to get her dressed and out the door as soon as possible? Men didn’t like talking about marriage. Ever. Greg had made that abundantly clear while they were dating. Any time weddings were mentioned in his presence, he’d made a show of rolling her eyes and snidely telling her not to get any ideas - not that she’d had any with him. The one time she’d convinced him to attend her cousin’s wedding with her, he’d been absolutely insufferable all weekend. By the time the bride had announced the bouquet toss, Belle had been so sick of Greg’s little digs that she’d excused herself to the bathroom until it was done.

But on the other hand, Neal wasn’t averse to marriage and kids. He’d really been looking forward to proposing to Tamara this Christmas. And from what little she knew, he seemed to be dealing with his newfound fatherhood pretty well. Maybe Greg wasn’t the metric by which all men should be measured.

She looked closely at Rum. He certainly didn’t seem scared off by her slip. A bit nervous, as though he were waiting with bated breath, but not uncomfortable or distant. Belatedly, she realized that he was waiting for her answer.

“I’d love to,” she was quick to assure him. He expelled his breath in a sudden whoosh of air. Had he been holding his breath this whole time? She giggled. Oh, this sweet, exasperating man. “Rum, I’m lying naked in bed with you for the third time in less than a week. Did you really think I’d say no?”

He took another sip of his tea with studied nonchalance. “You initiated all three times. I haven’t. Besides, tomorrow is Christmas. I didn’t want to presume.”

The thought hadn’t escaped her, either. When she first came to Storybrooke, she’d assumed that she’d be spending Christmas alone. It hadn’t bothered her; it was no different from her plans had she stayed in New York. But now, she could think of no one she would rather spend the holiday with. Her gift to Rum was sitting in the bedroom of the cottage, wrapped and waiting. Now she had the perfect time to give it to him.

They finished their cold tea while they firmed up their plans for Christmas evening. He would make dinner and provide the wine, while she insisted on preparing dessert. When they both had drained the last of their tea, the two of them reluctantly got dressed - her in last night’s clothes, him in a freshly pressed suit. It was her turn to do the “walk of shame” home, though shame was the last thing Belle could imagine feeling. She waited patiently while he shaved off the past few days of accumulated scruff, taking the time to finger-comb the worst of the tangles out of her curls. She didn’t concern herself too much; the first order of business when she got back to the cottage would be to take a much-needed shower.

Once he’d finished putting himself together, the pair of them slowly made their way downstairs. Though his face was carefully neutral, there was a mournful mien about Rum’s person. When they got to the door, he helped her into her coat without a word. She turned to face him while she did up her buttons. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay without me?” she asked gently.

His answering smile was strained. “This time of year is never easy,” he admitted. “But I think it’ll be easier this year. Having someone to talk to… helps.”

“I’m glad.” She reached up to cup his cheek,her thumb caressing over his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut, “If you need to talk, I’m just a phone call away.”

“I… Thank you. Truly.” He blinked a few times, cleared his throat, and squared his shoulders. “Well. I should let you go. I’m sure you have things to do.” He hesitated, standing expectantly as though he were waiting for something.

Belle grinned. She suspected he was hoping for a goodbye kiss before she left. And she was happy to give one. But first… Her hand went to the doorknob, and she didn’t fail to notice the disappointment in his eyes. Silly man. Didn’t he know he didn’t even have to ask?

Opening the door, she winced as a chill breeze blew through the entryway. The cold was nowhere near as biting as it had been yesterday, a fact for which Belle was very grateful. The sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky, and a few passersby dotted the sidewalk. A red-haired man in a tweed suit walked his Dalmatian, a black umbrella in the hand that didn’t hold the leash. Down the street, a black-haired woman in a pantsuit walked with her brunet husband and their son. And just across the street, a familiar figure in a blue coat, her brown hair pulled in a low chignon, was studiously  _ not _ looking at the salmon pink house. Mother Superior. Perfect.

Belle knew exactly the picture she presented as she stepped out onto the porch. Hair mussed, makeup smeared beyond hope of fixing, lips kiss-swollen, and she suspected Rum had left a love bite on her neck this morning to match the one she’d given him last night. She looked like a woman well-loved, a fact that wouldn’t escape the prying eyes of this small town. Well, if people wanted to talk, she’d give them something to talk about. And then she wouldn’t give them another thought.

Belle pivoted on her heels to face Rum, whose eyes widened in surprise at the motion. Before he could react, she had his black striped tie in her grip, tugging him forward insistently. He went without a fight, the press of his lips warm and firm against hers. She kept the kiss reasonably chaste - no need to scandalize the public  _ too _ much - but the way his hand fisted in the fabric of her coat left absolutely no question what their involvement was. More importantly, it clearly demonstrated to anyone in view that she didn’t give a damn about being seen with him. If that didn’t set his mind at ease about their “association,” then nothing short of having sex in the town square would. Belle liked to think she was fairly adventurous, but maybe not  _ that _ adventurous.

Regretfully, Belle broke the kiss. As wonderful as kissing Rum was, her bare legs were already starting to feel the cold. When she pulled back, his cheeks were red, his eyes just a little dazed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she murmured, giving him one last peck before grudgingly pulling away. She walked to her coupe with an extra spring in her step, feeling Rum’s dark eyes on her as she drove away.

******

“Hey, Em?”

Emma looked up from where she was sprinkling powdered sugar around a pair of snow boots she’d asked Neal to bring for this exact purpose. The “snowy” bootprints weren’t exactly convincing when they were coming out of a fake electric fireplace, but Henry would get a kick out of it nonetheless. “Yeah, Neal, what’s up?”

Neal took a swig of his beer while he hung the three stockings on the mantel. Neal’s stocking didn’t match the other two, having been purchased at the last minute today, but was no less nice for it. Per their usual tradition, Emma had stuffed all three stockings with the recipient’s favorite snacks and a few toiletries. Her knowledge of Neal’s preferences were about eleven years out of date, unfortunately. She hoped he still had a thing for Snickers and Hershey’s bars with almonds; he’d always gravitated towards those when they’d pulled their gas station heists. He’d certainly eaten his fill of magic bars over any other cookie she and Henry had baked for Santa today, so he still liked nuts.

“I just wanted to say thanks for inviting me over tonight,” he said, giving the Christmas stocking hooks one final nudge. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to have any Christmas traditions. I forgot how much I missed it. And it’s pretty cool to see the parent side of things.”

“No problem. I’m glad you came,” she replied, and wasn’t even surprised to realize that she meant it. She loved Christmases with her son. Having his dad here, despite the occasional awkward moments, made it better. “And I get what you mean. Henry’s first Christmas was… rough, for a lot of reasons,” she admitted. “I’d only been out of juvie a few months. I was living in this teeny, tiny studio apartment, making ends meet working as a waitress. I wasn’t used to small town living yet, and people were still whispering about the unwed single mother like it was some unheard-of scandal. Between that and the fact that I’d never had a real Christmas before, I decided that I was gonna pull out all the stops for Henry. Maybe I never got to have those experiences as a kid, but seeing Henry’s face light up makes it all worth it.”

“I bet.” Neal snagged a cookie from the cookie plate on the coffee table, holding the plate out for her. She selected a chocolate chip cookie, sitting back on her heels to enjoy it with her beer. “My dad…” He paused, and swallowed hard. Emma waited with bated breath. In the year they’d dated, Neal had only brought up his dad once or twice, and only to call him a controlling asshole. “My dad used to be the nicest guy. The type who’d give you the shirt off his back, you know? When we still lived in Scotland, we never really had the money for a lot of presents.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. You’re from  _ Scotland? _ ” Emma demanded. 

“Yup. Moved to the States when I was eight,” Neal confirmed. “I lost my accent after a few years in public school. But yeah, we didn’t really do the cookies and milk thing in Scotland. Papa liked to stick with the traditions his aunts taught him, I guess. So Santa had mince pies and sherry instead of cookies and milk.

Emma pulled a face at that. “Sounds gross.”

“Eh. They’re not bad,” Neal disagreed. “Anyway, he’d always bake three loaves of bread - one for me, one for mom, and one for him. There’s this tradition, where a little toy or trinket is baked into one of the loaves, and whoever finds it is supposed to have good luck for the next year. Every year, that toy was in my loaf. I used to think it was magic, ‘til one year when I saw Papa marking the loaves.”

“Sounds like he was a good dad,” Emma said, frowning. “I thought you said that he was a total jerk - that that was why you ran away from home. So what changed?”

“I dunno. Ever since he divorced my mom, it was like he turned into a different person.” Crossing the room, he collapsed onto the couch with a groan, finishing his beer in a single swig. “God, Em, you should’ve heard the shit my mom used to say to my dad. Vile, hateful stuff. He’d always just go quiet and say, ‘you don’t mean that.’ I remember…” Emma cracked open another beer and held it out to him. He accepted it with a nod of thanks. “I remember every year at Christmas he’d take this branch with red berries on it and throw it into the fireplace. Any time I asked why, he’d just give this sad little smile and say the smoke made the house smell nice.” He helped himself to another cookie, took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “I asked my Great Aunt Maisie about it one year. She got this sad, angry look on her face. She said it was a twig from a rowan tree. Apparently it’s a tradition in Scotland: you burn a rowan twig on Christmas and it gets rid of bad feelings among family. Anger, jealousy, mistrust, whatever. I didn’t realize ‘til years later that he was burning it because of my mom. Hoping to make her stop hating him or something, I guess.” He stared into the light of the fake fireplace for a long time, his mind a thousand miles away. “The year Auntie Maisie died, he didn’t burn any rowan on Christmas. A few weeks later, mom moved out and dad filed for divorce. That was when he started to change.”

“Shit. I’m sorry you and your dad went through that.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

They both sat in silence for several minutes after that. This was the most that Neal had ever told her about his past. His stance had always been one of living for now, and building toward the future. She could see why, now. It must hurt to look back and see the person you loved and trusted most become someone you couldn’t stand. 

It cast what had happened between her and Henry - what could have happened - in a much darker light.

Emma joined Neal on the couch, taking a fortifying gulp of beer. “I guess I can see where your dad’s coming from,” she confessed. “I mean… being in a relationship with the wrong person can really…” She trailed off, glancing toward Henry’s room. Her son was likely long asleep. If not, he was faking so Emma could do all of her late-night Santa preparations. She didn’t have to worry about young ears hearing something they shouldn’t. “...really fuck you up,” she concluded. “I would know.”

Neal frowned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean… for the past few years, I’ve been… maybe not in your dad’s shoes,” she allowed. “Not exactly, anyway. But I was in a relationship with the wrong guy, and let me tell you: it twists you up inside. Things that should mean the world to you become unimportant, and your whole world centers around somebody who doesn’t really give a shit about you. When you pour so much of yourself into someone who does nothing but take and take and take, after a while there’s just… nothing left of you for anything else. Not for your job, or your friends... Not even your kid,” she finished in a whisper.

“I can’t picture you doing anything to hurt Henry.”

Emma smiled weakly at Neal. “That’s nice of you to say, but I have. The whole reason I took this vacation was to get away from my ex, and try to make things up to Henry.”

Neal’s troubled frown only made her feel worse. “What happened?”

The breath huffed out of Emma’s lungs, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I put Killian’s wants over Henry’s needs, over and over again. For years!” Just remembering the disappointed look on Henry’s face when she dropped him off for a weekend with Mary Margaret or Ruby - again - while she went off with Killian was enough to make tears spring to her eyes. “At first it made so much sense, you know? Of course it made sense to leave Henry at home when Killian wanted to have a romantic dinner. Obviously Henry would be bored going for a ride on Killian’s boat.” Her face flushed in shame, her next words coming out in a whisper. “And of course Henry should never have to see when something in the evidence locker at the sheriff’s office needed to go missing.”

“Jesus, Em.”

“I know. I know!” Emma raked her fingers through her blonde hair. “Killian always said it was ‘just one more time.’ But there was always a next time. It was only a matter of time before I got caught.” She swallowed the last of her beer, reaching into the sixpack on the coffee table for another. “The town sheriff, Graham, caught me fudging things a little over a week ago. So now I’m suspended while he investigates. I’ll find out whether I’ve got a job sometime after Christmas, I guess.” She started at the feeling of Neal’s warm hand resting on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks. But that’s not the worst of it.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he opened his mouth to say something. He must’ve thought better of it, because he closed it with a thoughtful look, and started again. “Tell me,” he simply said.

Here it was: the one moment she was most ashamed of. She’d never been ashamed of being a single teen mom. Being an orphan had never caused a moment of embarrassment. And while she felt genuine remorse for helping Killian get away with his petty thievery and barfights, that had nothing on her greatest regret. 

“I abandoned him,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “This past summer. Killian spent  _ weeks _ convincing me that I deserved to… to get out, live a little. ‘Be a woman for once instead of just a mom.’” She gave a mirthless, watery laugh. “As if Henry wasn’t the best thing to ever happen to me. But I let him talk me into it. I packed a bag for both me and Henry, and I dropped him off with my friend Ruby and her grandmother, without even letting him know what was happening until I was dropping him off.” She still remembered how devastated he’d been when he realized that she was leaving him. The look of betrayal and hurt on Henry’s face would probably stay with her for the rest of her life. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, leaving warm tracks down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away impatiently. When she spoke next, her voice was thick and unsteady. “I spent a month with Killian on his boat, sailing up and down the coast. I called every day to check in on Henry, but he never picked up. And when I got back and brought him home, he wouldn’t say a word to me.” Emma swallowed hard against the painful lump in her throat, her jaw aching with the effort of holding back tears. “It t-took a full month before he’d even s-speak to me.” 

She hadn’t spoken about this in depth to anybody in the months since, and all of a sudden it was too much for her to bear. What if things had gone worse? What if Henry had been hurt, or had chosen not to forgive her? What if Graham had never caught her tampering with evidence? Would she ever have broken up with Killian, or would she have driven Henry to run away, like Neal had from his dad? Her shoulders shook as she was wracked with gasping, heaving sobs, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Neal’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, tugging her to lean into him. She resisted only halfheartedly before sinking into his side, taking comfort in his sturdy presence. 

For so long, she’d had to be strong to survive. In the orphanage, she’d learned self-sufficiency out of necessity. Her time in juvie had taught her quickly to hide away any hint of softness - of weakness. And being mom to Henry, while gratifying, put her in a position where she had to always give off an aura of surety and confidence. Even in her relationship with Killian, a small part of herself had always been on guard, waiting for the day when he wouldn’t want to put up with the trials of dating a single mom anymore. 

Neal wasn’t like that. He’d always accepted her for exactly what she was: orphan, runaway, thief, general screw-up. He knew that she was a package deal now: buy one ex girlfriend, get a ten year old kid and matched luggage set of emotional baggage for free. And despite what she’d thought for all these years, he’d never abandoned her willingly. With Neal’s arms around her holding her together, she felt safe enough to let herself fall apart. Just for a few minutes.

When the storm passed, Emma gently pushed herself away from Neal, needing some distance to recover her composure. He let her go without a word, leaning forward to pluck a few tissues from the tissue box on the coffee table. Emma accepted them with a watery smile, mopping the tears from her face and crumpling the tissues into a ball.

“So… you and this guy, Killian,” Neal said, carefully not looking at her or anything in particular. “You guys broke up?”

She nodded. “When my boss suspended me, I had a lot of time on my hands to really think about how messed up things had gotten. My job, my friends, my kid… I realized that I was putting my boyfriend ahead of everything in my life that really mattered, you know? I took this long, hard look in the mirror, and it was like I’d become this whole different person. I didn’t like the person I’d become - the person I  _ let _ myself become. The changes sort of snuck up on me, and by the time I realized how screwed up I was, I’d already managed to push my son away.”

A sad look passed over Neal’s face then, like a wisp of cloud passing over the moon: there one second, then gone. “I guess I get it,” he said. “I mean, everybody wants to be loved, right? And I guess we all do stupid shit to try and earn that love. You put somebody first in your life who didn’t deserve it. I convinced myself I was happy with someone who could rarely stand to be in the same room as me for more than five minutes. Someone else might forgive a cheating asshole too many times, or…” He trailed off, looking troubled. 

Understanding dawned on Emma in that moment. “...or maybe they’ll be so afraid of losing someone that they hold on too tight,” she suggested.

“...Yeah. Maybe.” He glanced at her then, a goofy smirk lighting up his face. “I thought your superpower was knowing when people were lying, not reading minds.”

She gave his shoulder a playful shove. “Hate to break it to you, doofus, but I actually don’t have a superpower,” she said. “You’re just really easy to read.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

They continued on like that for a full minute before Neal checked the time on his phone with a grimace. “I’d better be going if I wanna be back here early to do presents,” he said.

Emma hesitated. It was no hardship for Neal to head home for the night. He didn’t live far from here; he could be home in under fifteen minutes. It would similarly take him very little time to get back here in the morning.

But… she  _ wanted _ him here. She wanted Christmas morning with all three of them in pajamas, all with varying degrees of bedhead, eating breakfast together while Henry bounced impatiently in his seat, waiting to open presents. 

“You know, you could stay,” she said quietly. At his surprised look, she elaborated. “On the - on the couch. If you want.”

“You sure?” he asked.

She wasn’t. Oh, sure, she was positive that this was exactly what she wanted. But was it what she needed? What was best for her, and for Henry? Time would tell. She only hoped it wouldn’t be too hard on her if it proved her wrong.

“Yeah,” she replied.

He smiled, then - the goofy, lopsided smile that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago, and she mentally scolded her racing heart to  _ calm the hell down. _ He was just crashing on the couch. That was all.

“Then I’ll stay.”

“Good. Uh, good.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll just, uh, see if I can find some pillows and blankets.”

He waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. I know where Belle keeps ‘em. This isn’t the first time I’ve crashed on the couch here.”

“Oh. Then I guess I’ll just head to bed.” She turned to leave.

“Hey, Em?”

She turned back around, looking at Neal expectantly. “Yeah?”

He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say, and sighed. “Good night.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Good night, Neal.”

******

_ December 25th _

For the first time since she could remember, Emma was not awake before her phone alarm. With a jaw-cracking yawn, she shut the alarm off, stretching and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Henry was no doubt downstairs already, impatiently scoping out the presents to figure out which one was whose. 

Well, he’d just have to cool his jets, she thought, pulling a warm sweater over her tank top. They never opened presents before breakfast, and she wasn’t cooking Christmas breakfast until Neal woke up. Padding quietly to the door, she opened it, inhaling deeply through her nose. She frowned. The rich, bitter smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up to her nostrils. Underneath that were notes of bacon and chocolate. What the hell? Henry didn’t know how to cook Christmas breakfast. Hurrying down the stairs and to the kitchen, she froze in the doorway, taking in the view.

Neal and Henry were in the kitchen - Henry in his pajamas, Neal in a T-shirt and sweats that he definitely hadn’t been wearing last night - cooking breakfast together. Neal was multitasking at the stove: flipping chocolate chip pancakes, stirring scrambled eggs, and placing four slices of bread in the toaster. Henry busied himself with removing perfectly cooked slices of crispy bacon from a cookie sheet, laying them out on a paper towel-covered plate. 

The coffee maker beeped, causing Neal to look over his shoulder. “Hey kid, coffee’s ready. Why don’t you go upstairs and wake…” He trailed off as he finally noticed her presence in the doorway. He grinned. “Hey, good timing! Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom!” Henry chimed in.

“Merry Christmas,” Emma echoed numbly. She looked around at what the boys had done. The pancakes were nearly done, the last ones nearly ready to be stacked on the waiting plate. The scrambled eggs needed another minute or so, and Henry was just finishing plating the bacon. All the dishes that they must have used - mixing bowls, whisks, measuring cups and spoons - were already washed and drying in the dishrack. Neal must be one of those people who cleaned as he cooked. As far as Emma was concerned, she’d get a letter to Hogwarts before she learned that particular skill.

“Need any help?” she asked unnecessarily. It was pretty obvious that they had everything covered.

“Uh… I thhhink we’re good,” Neal replied. “All we need to do is set the table.”

“On it.” Feeling a bit ill-used - Christmas breakfast was  _ her _ job! - she set the table, pouring mugs of coffee for her and Neal, and a glass of orange juice for Henry. Within minutes they were all sitting down to eat.

“So Henry, do you think you made it on Santa’s nice list this year?” Neal asked. Emma shot him a grateful glance for playing along.

“I think so,” their son said confidently. “I got good grades all year, and did all my chores.”

“I did have to nag you a few times about the chores, though,” Emma teased.

“But I got them done!” he insisted. “And anyway, I scoped out the presents this morning. There’s more there than there were last night. So Santa must’ve been here.”

“Maybe those are for me,” Neal chimed in. “I did all my chores without needing my mom to remind me.”

Henry stuck his tongue out at Neal, who chuckled. The three of them chattered as they ate their breakfast. Once they were done and the remaining dishes were piled in the sink to be washed later, they retired to the living room to open presents. Emma sat on the floor and passed out gifts, being sure to give Henry his “boring” gifts first: clothes, school supplies, and a new winter coat to replace his current one, which was getting too small. Once those were done, she had him open the fun gifts she’d gotten him: a few new board and card games. Once they finished opening presents and cleaning up the wrapping paper, she knew he’d insist on reading through the manuals before coaxing her into a game (or five) in which she got utterly, hopelessly trounced.

For herself, Emma was surprised to receive a couple of gifts from Belle. Neal gave her a sheepish look. “They were, uh, originally supposed to be for Tamara. But I figured…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Since she hadn’t been expecting to get anything at all, she didn’t mind. She recognized the throw blanket and the mug with the ceramic kitten inside from Storybrooke’s local shops. “I’ll have to text her to tell her thank you,” she murmured.

There was one last gift to Henry: a largeish, heavy box addressed from Neal. Henry tore into it eagerly, exclaiming over whatever it was.

“What’d you get, kiddo?” she asked.

“It’s the new Xbox! The one that just came out!” He launched himself at Neal, throwing his arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you,  _ thank you! _ ”

Emma’s gut churned, her breakfast threatening to make a reappearance. The new Xbox. It was the one thing she knew Henry wanted more than anything, and the one thing he knew better than to ask for. If Emma had sprung for the five hundred dollar game console, she wouldn’t have been able to afford to get him new clothes. Given the choice between the two, she’d make damn sure her kid had clothes that fit. But she still resented having to choose.

Her eyes stung with tears. She blinked them away angrily. It wasn’t Neal’s fault; she  _ knew _ that. He didn’t know about her financial constraints. But it still hurt to see Henry gush over his present more than any of hers. It was stupid, and petty, and pathetic. But she couldn’t help how she felt.

“Mom?” Henry asked, looking up from the game console he’d been admiring. “Are you okay?”

She smiled, hoping it didn’t look as painful as it felt. “I’m fine. I just need to… go check something. I’ll be right back.”

She beat a hasty retreat back to her bedroom, thankful that she was able to keep from sniffling until the door was shut behind her. She lowered herself to the bed and let the tears come, careful to keep quiet. Henry didn’t need to see her like this.

After a few minutes, there was a quiet tapping at her door. “Em? Mind if I come in?” he asked.

She hesitated. She really didn’t want Neal to see her crying for the second time in less than a day. Once was bad enough. But he deserved an explanation, no matter how horrible it made her look. “Yeah,” she sighed.

He let himself in quietly, holding a short, wide box in his hands. “Hey. I just wanted to check up on you. You seemed kinda upset out there. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she said, impatiently scrubbing at her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “It’s stupid.”

He grunted, lowering himself to the edge of the bed to sit next to her. “Stupider than that time I tripped over my shoelaces and faceplanted on the sidewalk after we robbed that convenience store?”

She gave a watery chuckle, smiling through her tears at the memory. “God, that was the worst! I was waddling to the car in my fake pregnant belly. You were there one minute, and then boom! Total wipeout. When I pulled you up, the belly made us both lose our balance. I was convinced we were gonna get busted.”

“Good times, huh?”

“Good times.” God, it was so like Neal to know how to cheer her up when she was down. He’d always been able to make her laugh, even on the nights when they couldn’t afford food or a place to stay. “So… maybe it’s not  _ that _ stupid. Still pretty dumb, though.”

He gave her shoulder a little nudge with his own. “Tell me. You know I’m not one to judge.”

That was true. He wasn’t. “So… I know I asked you to be here, and all. But seeing you sweep in like a hero with the one gift Henry really,  _ really _ wanted… the one gift I couldn’t afford to get him… it hurts.”

“Ah, hell.” Neal rubbed at the back of his head. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. You mentioned that he didn’t have it, and I just figured it was the perfect gift. I didn’t know what else to get him.” He shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, Em. I should’ve asked.”

Emma shook her head. “I’m glad he was able to get it,” she insisted. “You totally made his Christmas. I’m  _ glad _ you did. But I’m also… jealous, I guess,” she mumbled. He didn’t say anything - just gestured for her to continue. “It’s like… I mean, the whole reason I came here was to fix things between me and Henry. Things are better, but still strained. And then you come along, and you connect with him so easily, and I just…” She sighed. “For so long it’s just been me and Henry, you know? I’ve never had to share him. I guess I’m having a hard time adjusting.” She buried her face with a pained groan. “God, I’m a mess.”

“Nah. I get it,” he said. “I’m still trying to figure out the whole dad thing. To be honest, I’m a little jealous that he calls you mom, but he still calls me Neal. But I didn’t wanna say anything, because of course he still calls me Neal. He’s known me for just a few days. You’ve been there all his life. And I get jealous of that, too. Thinking of all the years I missed with you… uh, with the two of you…” He cleared his throat, his cheeks darkening. “Anyway. I get it.”

“Really?” she asked with a relieved smile. “God, I thought I was being a total jerk.”

He bumped her shoulder playfully. “Nah. Just three quarters of one.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks.” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “Okay. I’m ready to go back out.” They both stood up. “And Neal?”

“Yeah?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in close for a hug. “Thanks for listening.”

Tentatively, his hands came to rest on her waist. “Any time.”

They stood there like that for a full minute, just enjoying the warm familiarity of their embrace. He’d filled out in the past eleven years, his frame losing the gangliness of youth and trading it for a more solid frame. Physically he may have changed a bit, but his scent, the grip of his hands on her waist, the way he pressed his cheek to the side of her head hadn’t.

Eventually she pulled back, relishing the feel of his fingers trailing along her ribs as he reluctantly let her go. Together they headed downstairs to see Henry reading through the manual of his newest board game.

“Hey, kiddo. How come you’re not cracking open your new Xbox?” Emma asked. “I figured you’d be dying to get your hands on it.”

Henry’s brown eyes darted between her and Neal, and he shrugged carefully. “We always play one of my new board games on Christmas,” he explained. “Besides, that’s not our TV. I didn’t think we could mess with it.”

Emma smiled affectionately at her son. His little act wasn’t fooling her. She knew he was doing this more for her sake than his own. “Tell you what,” she compromised, “we can spend today playing board games, and first thing tomorrow I’ll give Belle a call and ask if we can hook up your new game. Sound good?”

“Yeah!” Henry cried enthusiastically.

“She’ll probably be cool with it,” Neal assured them. “She’s pretty easygoing with electronics. But if you dog-ear a page in one of her books,  _ then _ you’ll have a problem.”

Emma snorted, grabbing the box for Henry’s board game and bringing it to the kitchen table. “Duly noted. Now come on. It’s time for the next Christmas day tradition: getting absolutely creamed at whatever game Henry inflicts on us.”

“Maybe this year you’ll get lucky,” Henry said, sliding into his chair with an overly innocent look.

With a roll of her eyes, she started setting the game up according to Henry’s instructions. She knew better than to get her hopes up; Henry absolutely dominated at board games.

Maybe she could convince Neal to help her gang up on Henry.

******

Belle sat back with a sigh, swirling the remaining Chardonnay in her glass. Rum had made seared chicken in a rich, creamy alfredo sauce, served on a bed of fresh, homemade fettuccine. She’d never had fresh pasta before, and she was definitely converted. Boxed pasta was fine, but homemade fettuccine brought an already delicious meal to the next level. If she were home alone instead of on a date with a captivating, sophisticated man with the most soulful brown eyes she’d ever seen, she’d abandon all dignity and lick the plate clean.

She’d joked to Rum that if he kept spoiling her like this, she’d never want to leave. His pleased smile sent a pang through her heart as she remembered just how soon she would have to go back to New York. The thought of leaving the quiet tranquility of Storybrooke behind - of leaving Rum behind - was something she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate too closely. But her life was in New York. Her apartment, her best friend, and her literary agent were all there. She couldn’t give all of that up just for a chance at happiness with a man she’d known for a week. Could she?

A small part of her wondered if she could convince him to follow her to New York. There was no family tying him here, no friends. Surely his landlord duties could be carried out by a third party. All he had here were his house and his shop.

But would it be fair to ask him to do that? To uproot himself after two decades of living here? More importantly, would he  _ want _ to?

“Belle?” 

She started, pulled out of her reverie. “Hm? Sorry, what?”

“You went quiet all of a sudden. Is everything alright?”

The concerned look in his eyes brought her fully back to the moment. Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. She had five more days. Five more days to spend with a wonderful man who treated her like she mattered deeply to him. She would enjoy what time she had left to its fullest. No sense borrowing trouble.

“Sorry. Got a little lost in my thoughts there,” she admitted. She gestured with her wine glass. “Why don’t we take these into the living room? Dessert will keep.”

He nodded, unhooking his cane from the arm of his chair and pushing himself to his feet. “Would you mind getting the bottle?” he asked with an apologetic gesture. With his glass in one hand and the other occupied by his cane, he had none to spare.

“Sure.” She kept pace with him as he limped toward the living room, wondering about his injury. Did it hurt him badly? How had he gotten it? He’d mentioned an accident, but hadn’t gone into much detail about it.

Those were questions for another time. Tonight was Christmas. More importantly, it was a difficult time for Rum: the anniversary of the night he’d come home to find his son gone. Dredging up memories of his accident would only darken his mood further.

She had to admit, though, that his thoughts didn’t seem to plague him as badly as they had two days ago. There was a pain behind his eyes that hadn’t left since she’d arrived here two hours ago. When she flirted and joked with him while she helped him in the kitchen, when they chatted about her writing career and some of his rarer antique finds over dinner, there was always that lingering shadow under the surface, waiting to be brought into the light. But he no longer had the look of a man whose splintered soul was on the verge of shattering.

He sank onto the couch with a relieved sigh, carefully rotating the joint of his ankle with a slight grimace. The old injury clearly still bothered him if he spent too much time on it. She wondered if he’d accept an offer for a massage later.

When Belle failed to seat herself next to him, he looked up at her with a surprised frown. “What are you doing?” he asked as she crossed the room to the windows with the heavy curtains drawn.

“Letting some light in,” she said blithely as she opened the curtains, snagging the rope tiebacks on their hooks. “Your neighbors have gorgeous white lights on their house. They’ll look so pretty from the couch.”

He didn’t argue as she opened the other windows, the twinkling of the Christmas lights driving away some of the shadows from the room. Finally, she rummaged through her oversized purse, which she had stashed in here when she first arrived, procuring a long white box tied neatly with a red satin ribbon.  _ Now _ she was ready to join him on the couch. She did, placing the box unceremoniously in his lap.

He frowned bemusedly at her. “What’s this?” he asked, pinching the tail of the bow between his thumb and forefinger and rubbing it slowly between them.

Belle resisted the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation. Rum wasn’t stupid; he knew exactly what it was. He just assumed that there had to be some other explanation. “It’s a Christmas present,” she explained. “You open it and see what’s inside. Tradition dictates you pretend to like it whether you do or not. If you don’t, your only recourse is to hope the giver was nice enough to put the receipt in the box.” 

She was babbling, making bad jokes to break some of the tension. It was a habit she’d picked up from Neal in the years she’d known him. But she was so apprehensive about this gift. Rum, like her, did very well for himself financially. What did one get a man who could simply buy himself anything he needed? He had a passion for collecting and restoring antiques, obviously. But even if Belle had known enough about antiques to even know where to  _ begin _ to look, Mr. Gold’s shop was the only antique dealer in town.

There was clearly one thing that Rum wanted more than anything in the world: his son back. And it was the one thing that Belle was helpless to get him. Beside that, a cashmere wool scarf seemed like a poor consolation prize.

Rum stared at the unopened box for a long moment. Rather than untying the bow and opening the box, he set it next to him, planting his cane on the floor and pushing himself to his feet.

Butterflies flapped unpleasantly in Belle’s stomach. Had she misread the situation somehow? “Rum? Where are you going?”

He limped slowly to an antique wooden hutch in the corner, opening one of the drawers and pulling something out. The stark black of his jacket and trousers nearly blended in with the shadows of the room, but the firelight caught in his hair, bringing out highlights of red among the brown and silver. It glinted off the golden handle of his cane and emphasized the red paisley pattern in his tie. As he returned to the couch, he proffered a small, flat white box, roughly as wide as his palm and tied together with golden elastic cord. She accepted it with unfeeling fingers.

“Just to get your gift,” he finally replied, reclaiming his place next to her. 

The two of them sat, thighs touching, both looking uncertainly down at the box in their lap. Eventually Rum went first, pulling carefully at one end until the bow unraveled. Gingerly lifting the lid from the box, he stared at its contents for a moment that seemed to last for an eternity. He caressed the soft burgundy material with his fingertips, his brow furrowed.

“It’s a scarf,” Belle explained unnecessarily. “I, erm, noticed that you didn’t have one, and I thought - well, it gets awfully cold here, and…” She trailed off as he continued to frown at the gift, her nerve failing her. “I… I have the receipt, if you don’t like it.”

“Like it? Sweetheart...” Laying the box to the side, he cupped her cheeks in his palms, leaning in for a sweet, lingering kiss. When he finally broke the kiss he didn’t go far, leaning his forehead against hers, his whiskey-brown eyes staring into hers. “This is the first gift I’ve received in over a decade. It’s perfect.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

He scoffed quietly. “I think you’ll find that I’m not that nice,” he replied. Then he sobered. “I mean it, Belle. I’ll cherish this.”

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Before she could say anything else, he pulled back, gesturing to the box in your hands. “Your turn,” he prompted.

With an eager grin, Belle slipped the golden cord from the box. She waited a long moment before opening it, shooting Rum a teasing grin at his impatient huff. Nestled inside was an antique brass hair comb adorned with ceramic roses. The largest rose was a golden ivory color, and was flanked by smaller flowers in black and cream. Brass rose leaves peeked out from behind the blooms, giving further depth to the lovely piece. 

She covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, Rum,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful. Thank you so much.” She threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for an exuberant hug. 

His hands came to rest on her hips, tugging her closer. “I considered giving you a book, but I wasn’t sure which ones you have,” he confessed. “I wasn’t sure if you liked roses, but I thought it suited you.”

“I  _ love _ roses,” she assured him, twisting her fingers through the ends of his hair with a gentle tug. He picked up on her hint immediately, obliging her with tender, sipping kisses that teased each of them until they were both just a bit breathless. They continued kissing, the occasional reverent brush of a hand only adding to the excitement, as the fire gradually died in the hearth. Eventually, the growing chill of the room forced the two of them reluctantly apart. Belle offered to rebuild the fire, which Rum readily accepted. 

Belle busied herself rekindling the fire, when something she saw gave her pause. Leaning up against the iron log holder was a small branch covered in small, shriveled leaves and clusters of desiccated red berries. Judging by its shriveled state, the thing had to be several years old at least. Its place near the hearth implied that it was meant to be burned, but it didn’t seem like something one would typically use for firewood.

“Rum?” she asked, holding the stick carefully in both hands. “What’s this?”

He looked up from the scarf she’d given him, where he’d been presumably checking its craftsmanship. The smile on his lips faded as the blood drained from his face. His eyes flashed in anger and pain. “Don’t touch that!” he snapped. He held his hand out for it peremptorily.

Belle gingerly placed it in his waiting palm with a wince. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said, chewing nervously at her lower lip.

He hunched protectively over the branch for a moment before his eyes chanced up to hers. Whatever he saw in her face must have pained him, because he bared his teeth in a grimace, the gold tooth on his lower jaw flashing in the waxing firelight. “No, I’m sorry,” he said hastily. “I shouldn’t have shouted. This is just… very personal.”

She nodded, sinking cautiously back down onto the couch. Rum showed no signs of letting go of the branch. Unable to find the words to fix this - as a writer, that seemed to be happening a lot lately - she simply waited and listened.

Eventually, he spoke. “Every Christmas when Bae was wee, I would burn a rowan branch in the hearth.” Thinking of his life before coming to America must have had a profound effect on him. His eyes were raw and open, his accent more pronounced. “It’s something my aunties taught me - an old superstition. Burning a twig of rowan on Christmas day would purge friends, family and neighbors of any ill feelings or grudges. I didn’t put much stock in the practice, myself, but I thought… if there was even the remotest of chances that Milah might… might see me as her husband, instead of the millstone about her neck… well, I’d try anything.” The derisive look told her exactly how successful that had been. 

“So that branch is from your marriage,” Belle guessed.

“No.” He scoffed. “I didn’t keep a single memento from my marriage. By the time we divorced, there was no love lost between us.” Still gripping the end of the stick in one hand, the other moved over it reverently, not quite touching the brittle leaves or shrunken berries. “No, this was much more recent. When I came home on Christmas day fourteen years ago, and Bae was gone, I searched his room. Lying on the bed was this rowan branch, and a note, telling me that he’d caught the first bus out of town. I found out later that the meddling Mother Superior of the Sisters of Saint Meissa gave him money for bus fare.” His face twisted in an ugly, angry scowl as he spat out the name of the nuns’ order, as thought the name tasted foul in his mouth.

Ever the optimist, Belle said, “But the branch is a good thing, right? It means he wants to reconcile.”

Rum shook his head, his hair falling in his face. “I found him once,” he said, “Less than a year after he left, living in squalor in Hartford, Connecticut. Belle, the way my boy looked at me, like he loathed the very ground I walked upon…” He covered his mouth with one hand just in time to smother a sob. Belle tucked herself into his side, careful not to jostle the branch in his hand. When he spoke next, his voice wavered with the effort of holding back tears. “He said that… that if a stupid superstition couldn’t make his mother a better person, then there was no hope for me. That I’d never change, and in tracking him down, I’d only proven that he was right to run from me.  _ Run  _ from me! Like I was a monster to be feared, and not just a man who wanted to do right by his son!”

He wept then, tears trickling down his cheeks. Unlike two nights ago, he didn’t dissolve into a sobbing heap; he was able to hold himself together, if only just. After a minute or two, he reined in his emotions.

“This branch represents my final failure. Until that day fourteen years ago, Bae had hope that he would get his Papa back. He left this branch on his bed to show me that he’d finally given up on me.”

The two of them stayed quiet for a long while as Belle struggled with what to say. Nothing she could either say or do would bring his son back. For all she knew, he might not even be alive - a thought that had no doubt occurred to Rum many times over the years. She had no intention of bringing up that possibility and pouring salt into what was obviously still an open wound.

No, focusing on getting his son back wasn’t the way to help Rum. To get his hopes up when she had no way of granting his dearest wish would be cruel. She needed to find a way to help him that didn’t rely too heavily on his son. Or on her, for that matter. With only five days remaining of her holiday, there was no telling where things between them would go.

Belle wasn’t a therapist; she was a writer. She wouldn’t even know how to begin to help Rum come to terms with his grief. She simply had to use the limited tools at her disposal.

“You say this branch represents failure,” she said, “but that’s not what it used to mean to you. What used to go through your head when you would burn these in Scotland?”

He was quiet for a long time, turning the branch slowly in his hands, the dried leaves rustling and rasping with the movement. “Hope,” he said softly. “Every year I’d hope that this would be the year Milah would remember the feelings she once had for me. That maybe the three of us… me, her, and Bae… could finally be a proper family.”

Belle laid a reassuring hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze. “So let it be that again - hope, instead of failure,” she said. “If Bae had this in his room, it means he still had hope, just like you did. He believed you could be the man he loved. So prove him right.” She reached out and cupped his cheek in her palm. He closed his eyes, nuzzling further into his palm. “Forget your mistakes, and your failures. Those things don’t define you. Don’t let them get in the way of being the man you want to be.”

Rum seemed to give serious thought to her words. For the next ten minutes, he sat perfectly still, frowning at the branch in his hands. Belle tucked herself into his side, offering her silent support as he came to some sort of conclusion.

Finally, after half an eternity of silent contemplation, he got up and walked slowly to the fireplace, Belle remaining glued to his side the entire time. For a few more moments, his gaze darted back and forth between the desiccated stick in his hands, and the blazing warmth of the fire. With a deep, fortifying breath, he cast the branch into the flames.

“I’m sorry, Bae,” he whispered. “I can’t ask your forgiveness. I just hope… wherever you are… that you’ve found the happiness I couldn’t give you.”

Belle wrapped her arm around his waist, tugging him closer to her side as the fire quickly engulfed the dried out stick. Within moments, the flames had devoured every trace of it until nothing remained but the warming blaze it had left behind, banishing the cold and dark from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we finally got to Christmas! It only took 'til January 16th. I might take a brief break from this story just to work on another WIP or two that I'm dying to get back to. Not to worry - I WILL be back with more, because next chapter features something I've been looking forward to writing since I started this. If I were to guess, there's roughly four more chapter and an epilogue after this.


	10. Going To The Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for...

_ December 26th _

A pair of strong, wiry arms wrapped around Belle’s middle from behind, pulling her gently out of sleep and into a warm, smooth chest. She hummed contentedly as Rum rained slow, sucking kisses up the side of her neck while his hips rocked slowly against her, pushing the hard length of him against her bottom.

She’d never be a morning person, she reflected, but if this was the sort of treatment she could expect, she could be persuaded to see this side of ten a.m. more often.

“Mmm, morning,” she mumbled sleepily, tilting her head further to grant him better access to her neck. One hand crept slowly over her ribs to palm her breast, kneading gently before leaving off. Not done with his play, Rum traced teasing circles around her nipple before giving it a firm pinch, sending a jolt of pleasure that went straight between her thighs. He chuckled in her ear at her breathless gasp before repeating the motion that caused it. 

“A  _ very _ good morning,” he murmured against her neck.

Before she could make a suggestion or five on how they could make it a great one, her phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand. Opening her bleary eyes, she strained to focus on the name displayed on the screen before letting her head hit the pillow with a groan. Her eyes fell back shut.

“It’s Emma,” she said.

Rum was completely undeterred, his hands continuing to wander while his teeth scraped deliciously against her throat in a way that had her thighs rubbing restlessly together to ease the ache between them. “Miss Swan can wait,” he informed her, as though his actions hadn’t made his thoughts on the matter abundantly clear.

“Behave, Rum. I need to take this,” she admonished gently. He subsided with a grumble, wrapping his arms back around her middle and peppering her nape with closed-mouthed kisses as a compromise. “I’ll get her off quickly,” she promised.

“Good, because I have plans to spend the rest of the morning getting you off slowly,” he retorted.

Ignoring the insistent throb between her legs that his promising words brought, she fumbled blindly for her phone, eyes still closed. She accepted the call and set it to speaker without even opening her eyes long enough to look. “H’lo?”

_ “Hey, Belle,” _ Emma’s voice said, floating through the air from the phone’s speaker.  _ “Neal gave Henry the new Xbox for Christmas, and I was wondering… if…” _ Her voice trailed off. When she spoke next, her voice sounded muffled.  _ “Oh god, you’re not alone.” _

“What are you talking about?” Belle asked, stifling a giggle when Rum hit a ticklish spot with his lips. “Of course I’m alone.”

_ “Uh, Belle? You might wanna open your eyes.”  _ What was she on about? Belle cracked an eye open, realizing with horror that she could see Emma on her screen. The blonde woman waved awkwardly.  _ “Hi.” _

Heart in her throat, Belle scrambled to make sure she was covered. “Oh my god, you have me on  _ video?” _ Rum’s lips froze on her neck.

_ “I’m sorry! Neal said you’d be cool with us setting up Henry’s new Xbox, but he thought you might wanna watch us set it up to make sure we don’t do it wrong.” _ Her awkward smile turned decidedly sly.  _ “So who’s the lucky guy? Anybody I know?” _

Neal’s voice drifted over the speaker in the background.  _ “Wait, she’s with the sex god? Gimme the phone, Em, I wanna see!” _

_ “Whoa, there’s a sex god in Storybrooke, and I haven’t heard of him?”  _ Emma demanded.  _ “Come on, spill! Who is it? Anybody I know?” _

Behind her, Rum heaved a vexed sigh. “I believe you’ve already made my acquaintance, Miss Swan.”

Belle rubbed her face, groaning in embarrassment. It was one thing to let the town know that she was involved with Mr. Gold. It was quite another thing to be caught in the act.

Emma spluttered wordlessly for a few moments.  _ “Wh… y… buh… you’re screwing my  _ _ landlord _ _?” _

_ “Gimme the phone!” _ Neal repeated.

_ “Please at least tell me you haven’t slept with him in my bed,”  _ Emma groaned. Belle didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to; the hot flush on her face said it all.  _ “Oh Jesus. I can’t believe - hey!” _

The image on the screen shook as Neal snatched up the phone. His grinning face, normally a welcome sight, just caused her own face to burn even hotter. God, this had to be the most humiliating moment of her life. The only thing that could possibly make this worse would be if she accidentally flashed her boobs to Henry.

_ “So this is the snappy…” _ Neal trailed off, the grin falling from his face. His skin took on a sickly, grayish hue.  _ “Papa?” _

Behind her, Rum’s breath caught in his throat. “Bae? Is that you, son?”

Belle’s embarrassment vanished as though it had never been. This had to be some sort of a mistake, or a misunderstanding. Right? Glancing over her shoulder, she cupped his stubbled cheek in her palm. “That’s not Bae,” she told him as gently as she could. “That’s my friend. His name is Neal Cassidy, not Baeden Gold.”

Rum shook his head vehemently. “I know my son,” he insisted. “I’d know him anywhere.  _ That’s him.  _ That’s my boy.”

“Rum… it’s been fourteen years. He’d look different than you remember.” Belle felt awful for dashing his hopes like this, but it would be far crueler to give him false hope. She turned her attention back to her friend. “Neal, tell him. Tell him it’s a mistake.” She waited, her stomach sinking with each second that he didn’t speak. “Neal?”

Neal, for his part, looked like he was going to be sick.  _ “I gotta go,” _ he said quickly, disappearing from the screen.

After a moment or two, Emma’s face reappeared.  _ “Wow. That was just… wow,” _ she contributed helpfully.  _ “Um… you know what? I think we can figure out how to hook up the Xbox on our own. I’ll just, uh… go. I think we’ve all got a lot to think about.” _ She gave an exaggerated shudder.  _ “First things first: I’ve gotta Google whether burning a mattress is legal in Maine.” _

Belle ended the call with a groan. This was  _ not _ how she’d expected her morning to go. Having a bit of a lie-in, indulging in some morning hanky-panky followed by a cuddle and some tea: that had sounded like the perfect start to the day. Instead she’d been caught  _ in flagrante delicto _ by a woman she’d technically never met. On top of that was the unsettling realization that she’d been unwittingly sleeping with her best friend’s father.

Oh god, Rum. If this was going to be hard for Neal, it must be devastating for him. She belatedly realized that he’d rolled away from her at some point. He was now perched, nude, on the edge of the bed, back turned toward her, with his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook slightly.

“Rum…” She sidled up to him, tucking herself so closely to his side that she was practically in his lap. He turned toward her, hands encircling her waist as he buried his face in her hair. Her fingers combed soothingly through his own hair, the smooth strands slipping between them, as her free hand stroked over his shaking shoulders. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry; I swear I didn’t know. Maybe I can talk to him, or…” She trailed off as the quaking of his shoulders properly registered with her. They weren’t trembling with the irregular rhythm of hiccupping sobs; the rhythm was constant, almost like… “Rum, are you  _ laughing? _ ”

He nodded helplessly against her throat, finally giving voice to his laughter. Flopping down onto the bed, pulling her down next to him, raining kisses all over her face through his chuckles. When he pulled away to look at her, his eyes shone with joy and unshed tears. With one reverent hand, he brushed her tangled curls away from her cheek.

“My darling Belle,” he breathed. “This is the best gift you could have given me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

She frowned worriedly at him. Unless she’d been watching a different video call, that had been far from a joyous father-son reunion. If anything, Neal… Bae…  _ whoever _ he was… hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. The last thing Belle wanted to do was take this moment away from Rum. But Neal was stubborn. If he wasn’t ready to talk to his father, then nothing she could say would convince him otherwise. Letting Rum believe that she could repair things between them, if Neal didn’t want them fixed, would be cruel.

“I can try to talk to him,” she offered. “But… Rum, he’s still angry. I don’t know if… I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” she finished lamely.

He shook his head quickly. “No, don’t,” he said. “He’d probably think that I asked you to speak on my behalf. If there’s one thing I learned from my mistakes, it’s that it’s better to give Bae room to think. If he decides that he’s not ready to talk to me… then I just have to be okay with that.”

“Then… why are you thanking me?” she asked.

“Because now I know he’s  _ alive _ ,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Belle, the last time I saw my boy, he was living under a bridge with a group of teenaged boys who looked like they’d just as soon knife him in the ribs as shelter him. You’ve no idea how many nights I’ve lain awake at night, wondering if my boy was dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse…” He swallowed a dry sob. “But he’s alive, and he’s healthy. He  _ is _ healthy, right? And happy?” His fraught eyes searched hers for any hint of imminent tragedy.

Well, there went any hopes of having her way with Rum this morning, she thought with a wry grin. Still, she couldn’t begrudge him this; after nearly a decade and a half, he was starving for any detail she could impart on the years he’d missed. The joy in his eyes was well worth any missed pleasure in the bedroom.

“Come on,” she said, pushing herself up to her feet. The naked adoration in his eyes nearly brought tears to hers. “Let’s get the kettle on and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

******

Emma rubbed her face once her phone screen went black. She stared blankly at her reflection in the blank screen, trying to put together everything she’d just learned.

So… Belle, the woman she’d let into her house, had slept with Mr. Gold. Her landlord. In her  _ bed. _ She’d obviously told Neal that she was seeing somebody. Mr. Gold. Her landlord, and all-around asshole. And now it came out that the man she was seeing was Neal’s dad.  _ Mr. Gold. _ Storybrooke’s most unrepentantly sarcastic, snobby citizen, who was Neal’s opposite in pretty much every way. Who also used to bake toys into bread and put out mince pies for Santa.

It just didn’t add up. What was a sweet woman like Belle doing with an old bastard like Gold? And how the  _ hell _ had he fathered a guy as fun-loving and understanding as Neal?

Emma’s eyes widened in horror as the realization hit her. Neal was Henry’s dad. Gold was Neal’s dad. Which meant that Gold… was…

Oh god. She didn’t even want to  _ think _ about that. Maybe if she didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be true.

Emma called Henry from his room, thanking whatever higher power was listening that he’d gone there during her phone conversation with Belle. He did  _ not _ need to hear about Belle and Mr. Gold hooking up. For that matter, he didn’t need to find out that Gold was his… ugh. No need to think about that. 

Together, they managed to get the Xbox hooked up to the TV, and popped in a game for him to play. With her son thus occupied, she was free to hunt Neal down. It didn’t take long; he was holed up in Emma’s room, perched on the edge of the bed. He looked up when she entered.

“Hey. You okay?” she asked.

“I… yeah,” he said, looking back down at his loosely clasped hands. “Sorry, I’m not trying to butt in on your space. I just needed a minute. Or an hour.” He sighed. “Maybe a year.”

“I bet.” She dropped gracelessly onto the bed next to him, her breath rushing from her lungs in a huff. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” he said instantly, but then paused, rubbing at the back of his head. “I dunno, maybe?”

They sat together in companionable silence for several minutes. Neal fidgeted with his thumbs, his leg jiggling restlessly. Eventually he shot up off the bed and started pacing the room, raking his hands through his already messy hair. Emma watched without a word as he practically wore a track on the throw rug.

“What’s he like?” he blurted.

Emma blinked. “Who, Gold?” she asked.

“Yeah. My head keeps running around in circles. I see Belle, my best fucking friend, in bed with him, and I don’t know how to take that. Usually she’s a pretty damn good judge of character, but she dated an asshole for four years, so who knows.” His eyes, when he turned them on her, were agonized. “You’re not one to mince words, Emma. Never have been. So be honest: do you think he’s gonna hurt her?”

Oh boy. This conversation was way above her pay grade. Like,  _ way _ above. She was still having a hard time reconciling the arrogant bastard she knew with the humble Dad of the Year picture Neal had painted last night. 

Neal respected her opinion. He always had. Even when they disagreed on something, he always gave her words fair consideration. And as a neutral third party, anything she told him about his dad now would color his perception of the guy.

There was no love lost between her and Gold. The guy was sketchy as hell, absolutely merciless when it came to rent deadlines, and had a stick up his ass a foot long. He’d done absolutely nothing to endear himself to her - or anybody else in town, for that matter - since she’d moved there.

But… she’d sympathized with Gold the other night, hadn’t she? Granted, she hadn’t known it was Gold at the time, but the idea of losing her son forever due to her own stupidity had hit home. 

At the end of the day, though, her loyalty was to Neal, not Gold. She’d give him the unvarnished truth; he could decide what to do with it. He deserved that much.

“If you want my opinion, Gold’s an asshole,” she said honestly. Neal’s unsurprised nod was at odds with the disappointment on his face. His pacing didn’t let up even as she continued. “He gets pissy if you’re so much as a day late on rent, and throws out eviction threats like they’re candy at a parade. And he’s got some kind of grudge against the nuns. I mean, who hates  _ nuns? _ ” 

“That… might be my fault. Kind of,” he admitted. Emma waited to see if he’d elaborate. He didn’t. Something seemed to deflate in Neal, then. He collapsed back onto the bed, leaning his elbows heavily on his knees. “So he hasn’t changed.”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not,” she replied. “I didn’t exactly know the guy when you were around, so I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that he hasn’t actually evicted anybody in the tenish years I’ve lived there. He threatens and blusters, but as far as I know, nobody’s ever been served an eviction notice, even when they were weeks late on rent. He harasses them like he’s got nothing better to do, but that’s as far as it’s gone. Maybe he’s secretly a decent guy. Personally, I think he’s just smart enough to realize that if he evicts half the town, he loses half his profits with ‘em.  _ But, _ ” she quickly added at Neal’s devastated look, “I don’t think he’ll hurt Belle. He hasn’t beaten the crap out of anybody since you left.”

“How do you know about that?” Neal demanded. “I never told you why I left.”

“Deputy cop, remember?” she asked with a roll of her eyes. “When I got the job at the station, one of the first things I did was look up Gold’s record.”

He frowned. “Why’d you do that?”

She snorted. “Have you  _ seen _ your dad?” she asked. “He’s got that whole ‘sleeping with the fishes,’ ‘give him an offer he can’t refuse’ vibe. I wanted to know if Storybrooke had its very own mob boss.” Neal snorted at that, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “From what I saw, he’s toed the line since his son - y’know, you - ran away. No assaults. Nobody hospitalized with bruises shaped like cane handles. So I guess I’d sum up and say he’s a prick, but I don’t think Belle’s in any danger.”

Neal leaned forward with a tired nod, steepling his hands over his mouth and nose. “Thanks for being honest,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands. 

Emma leaned her head against Neal’s shoulder, offering what small comfort she could. The rigid line of his shoulders eased a bit under her touch. “So… what are you gonna do?” she asked.

“About my dad?” he asked. She nodded; he shrugged. “Hell if I know. You got any thoughts?”

“Look, I’m not exactly a card-carrying member of the Gold Fan Club,” she informed him with a wry look. “And he’s about as fond of me as I am of him. So if you’re looking for someone to tell you to go to Storybrooke and have some heartfelt reunion, you’re gonna have to look elsewhere.” She sighed in anticipation of what she was about to say. Far be it from her to take Gold’s side…  _ ever _ … but in the interest of honesty, she’d say it. “But speaking as someone who never knew her parents, I’d give my left arm to have the chance to get some closure with them. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about confronting them. Finding out why they ditched me, giving them a piece of my mind, and all that. So if you think that something like that would help you, I say go for it. It’s not like you have to stick around after.”

“True.” He leaned his head on Emma’s where it still rested on his shoulder. The smell of his aftershave wafted into her nose, spicy and soothing and  _ him _ . It brought her back all those years, when there had been no safer place than being at his side. She nestled deeper into his shoulder, seeking more of that scent. Her lips brushed lightly against his throat. He stiffened with a sharp intake of breath, his hands grasping her shoulders and pushing her away just far enough so he could see her face. 

“Neal,” she whispered, leaning into the pressure of his hands. Instead of holding her away, he shifted his grip and tugged her slowly closer until their lips were mere inches apart.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his breath ghosting over her face.

It was more than okay. It was everything she wanted. Neal was safety and fun and adventure and comfort. He was the first family she’d ever had, the first person who’d seen her for all she was and accepted every bit of it. He accepted her mistakes, and her emotional baggage. And unlike Killian, he would love Henry unconditionally instead of shutting him out.

Oh god. Henry. What would Henry think about this? Would he be happy to see his parents reunited? Or would he think Emma was putting her love life first again? And what if things didn’t work out between her and Neal? Neal’s relationship with Henry was so new and fragile. Risking it for the sake of her own desires would be selfish. 

Reluctantly, she lowered her eyes. Neal got the hint, releasing his hold on her shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I want to. I really do. But I need to put Henry first.”

Neal put on a brave smile that didn’t quite cover the disappointment in his eyes. “I get it,” he said. “Throwing a kid in the mix makes things complicated, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But maybe I’d like to.”

Emma leaned her head back on Neal’s shoulder, careful to keep the contact between them tame. Really, she shouldn’t even be doing that much. The tension between them still simmered underneath the resigned disappointment they both were feeling. But selfishly, she couldn’t bring herself to end the moment between them. Not yet.

“You know…” she eventually said, “you totally called your dad a sex god.”

Neal buried his face in his hands, his groan muffled behind his palms. His ears glowed beet red. “God, don’t remind me,” he said. “I… may have also told Belle to hunt him down and screw his brains out.”

Emma tried not to laugh. She really did. But she was only human, and the idea that her ex boyfriend had unwittingly gone out of his way to get his dad laid was too damn funny to resist. That his dad was  _ Gold  _ of all people just made her laugh all the harder.

“It’s not funny!” Neal protested. 

“Yeah it is,” she managed to say through her hysterical giggles.

“Do I need to remind you that Belle nailed  _ Henry’s grandpa _ in your bed?” he asked.

Oh  _ god _ . Emma’s belly laughs were quickly replaced by a wave of nausea. “Ugh, you win,” she said. 

“Speaking of…” Neal turned his head to regard her seriously. “What are you going to tell Henry?”

She shrugged. “God, who knows? I mean, sure, Henry’s the only person Gold can stand… aside from Belle, apparently… but I dunno if I’m up for Grandpa Gold to start showing up at the house, you know?” She snickered at the idea of Gold visiting once a month in that capacity: collecting rent, offering her a butterscotch and going on about the good ol’ days. Or whatever the hell grandparents did.

Neal hummed noncommittally. “Anyway, I should get going,” he said. “I should’ve been at the office…” He checked his watch. “Thirty minutes ago. Cool if I call after I get off work? I’d like to hear how Henry likes his Xbox.” 

Emma smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that. We both would.”

“Cool.” Seemingly without thinking, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. They both froze, and he pulled back with a wince. “Sorry about that. I just, uh…”

“It’s fine.” Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she gave him a nudge toward the door. “Go on, go to work. I’ll talk to you after.”

“Yeah. I’ll, uh, say bye to Henry on my way out.” And with that, he slipped out the door.

Emma stayed exactly where she was: perched on the edge of the bed. She let out a shaky sigh, trying not to think about how close she’d been to throwing away all the progress she’d made with Henry. She couldn’t jeopardize her relationship with her son - or her son’s relationship with his dad, for that matter - for the sake of a romance that may or may not pan out.

Still, it was impossible to forget just how good it felt to be in his arms, or the thrill of excitement she felt when he’d almost kissed her.

She was in big trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I wanted to write another scene or two, but they just weren't coming together. I've been stuck for over a week, so I'm throwing in the towel and saying "meh, good enough." Plus, while I'm enjoying writing this fic, I am DESPERATE to get back to my Anyelle fic, Breaking Cycles.


End file.
